s- 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 

JIM  TULLY 

GIFT  OF 
MRS.  JIM  TULLY 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE 


Under  the  Deodars 

The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

Wee  Willie  Winkie 

By  Rudyard  Kipling 


PTTBUtSHED  BY 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

itm 

REVIEW  OF  REVIEWS  CO. 
1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1895, 
By  MACMILLAN  AND  CO, 


COPYRIGHT,  1899, 
Br  RWDYARD  KIPLING 


4-abrary 


^ 
CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERB   .....  3 

AT  THE  PIT'S  MOUTH     ........  30 

A  WAYSIDE  COMEDY  .........  38 

THE  PIT  THAT  THEY  DIGGED    ......  53 

THE  HILL  OF  ILLUSION  ........  58 

A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN  ........  70 

ONLY  A  SUBALTERN   .........  93 

THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW  .......  in 

MY  OWN  TRUE  GHOST  STORY  .     .     .     .     .     .  140 

THE  TRACK  OF  A  LEE     ........  150 

'~"> 

THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF  MORROWBEE  JUKES  .  .  154 
£ 

THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  .....  182 
j 

WEE  WILLIE  WINKTE      ........  227 

BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP      .....     .     .  240 

His  MAJESTY  THE  KING  ........  275 

THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  APT      .     .     .  289 


799926 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

WEE  WILLIE  WINKJE 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE 


In  the  pleasant  orchard-closes 
'God  bless  all  our  gains,'  say  we; 

But  'May  God  bless  all  our  losses,' 
Better  suits  with  our  degree. 

The  Lost  Bower. 

THIS  is  the  history  of  a  failure;  but  the  woman  who 
failed  said  that  it  might  be  an  instructive  tale  to  put 
into  print  for  the  benefit  of  the  younger  generation. 
The  younger  generation  does  not  want  instruction, 
being  perfectly  willing  to  instruct  if  any  one  will  lis- 
ten to  it.  None  the  less,  here  begins  the  story  where 
every  right-minded  story  should  begin,  that  is  to  say  at 
Simla,  where  all  things  begin  and  many  come  to  an  evil 
end. 

The  mistake  was  due  to  a  very  clever  woman  making 
a  blunder  and  not  retrieving  it.  Men  are  licensed  to 
stumble,  but  a  clever  woman's  mistake  is  outside  the 
regular  course  of  Nature  and  Providence;  since  all  good 
people  know  that  a  woman  is  the  only  infallible  thing 
in  this  world,  except  Government  Paper  of  the  '79 
issue,  bearing  interest  at  four  and  a  half  per  cent.  Yet, 
we  have  to  remember  that  six  consecutive  days  of 
rehearsing  the  leading  part  of  The  Fallen  Angel y  at 
the  New  Gaiety  Theatre  where  the  plaster  is  not  yet 
properly  dry,  might  have  brought  about  an  unhinge- 


4  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

ment  of  spirits  which,  again,  might  have  led  to  eccen- 
tricities. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  came  to  'The  Foundry'  to  tiffin  with 
Mrs.  Mallowe,  her  one  bosom  friend,  for  she  was  in  no 
sense  'a  woman's  woman.'  And  it  was  a  woman's  tiffin, 
the  door  shut  to  all  the  world;  and  they  both  talked 
chiffons,  which  is  French  for  Mysteries. 

'I've  enjoyed  an  interval  of  sanity,'  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
announced,  after  tiffin  was  over  and  the  two  were  com- 
fortably settled  in  the  little  writing-room  that  opened 
out  of  Mrs.  Mallowe's  bedroom. 

'My  dear  girl,  what  has  he  done?'  said  Mrs.  Mallowe 
sweetly.  It  is  noticeable  that  ladies  of  a  certain  age 
call  each  other  'dear  girl,'  just  as  commissioners  of 
twenty-eight  years'  standing  address  their  equals  in  the 
Civil  List  as  'my  boy.' 

'There's  no  he  in  the  case.  Who  am  I  that  an  imag- 
inary man  should  be  always  credited  to  me?  Am  I  an 
Apache? ' 

'No,  dear,  but  somebody's  scalp  is  generally  drying 
at  your  wigwam-door.  Soaking,  rather.' 

This  was  an  allusion  to  the  Hawley  Boy,  who  was  in 
the  habit  of  riding  all  across  Simla  in  the  Rains,  to  call 
on  Mrs.  Hauksbee.  That  lady  laughed. 

'For  my  sins,  the  Aide  at  Tyrconnel  last  night  told 
me  off  to  The  Mussuck.  Hsh!  Don't  laugh.  One  of 
my  most  devoted  admirers.  When  the  duff  came — 
some  one  really  ought  to  teach  them  to  make  puddings  at 
Tyrconnel — The  Mussuck  was  at  liberty  to  attend  to  me.' 

'Sweet  soul!  I  know  his  appetite,'  said  Mrs.  Mal- 
lowe. '  Did  he,  oh  did  he,  begin  his  wooing? ' 

'By  a  special  mercy  of  Providence,  no.  He  explained 
his  importance  as  a  Pillar  of  the  Empire.  I  didn't 
laugh.' 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE  5 

'Lucy,  I  don't  believe  you.' 

'Ask  Captain  Sangar;  he  was  on  the  other  side. 
Well,  as  I  was  saying,  The  Mussuck  dilated.' 

'I  think  I  can  see  him  doing  it,'  said  Mrs.  Mallowe 
pensively,  scratching  her  fox-terrier's  ears. 

'  I  was  properly  impressed.  Most  properly.  I  yawned 
openly.  "Strict  supervision,  and  play  them  off  one 
against  the  other,"  said  The  Mussuck,  shovelling  down 
his  ice  by  tureenfuls,  I  assure  you.  "  That,  Mrs.  Hauks- 
bee,  is  the  secret  of  our  Government." ' 

Mrs.  Mallowe  laughed  long  and  merrily.  'And 
what  did  you  say? ' 

'Did  you  ever  know  me  at  loss  for  an  answer  yet? 
I  said:  "So  I  have  observed  in  my  dealings  with  you." 
The  Mussuck  swelled  with  pride.  He  is  coming  to 
call  on  me  to-morrow.  The  Hawley  Boy  is  coming 
too.' 

'"Strict  supervision  and  play  them  off  one  against 
the  other.  That,  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  is  the  secret  of  our 
Government."  And  I  daresay  if  we  could  get  to  The 
Mussuck's  heart,  we  should  find  that  he  considers  him- 
self a  man  of  the  world.' 

'As  he  is  of  the  other  two  things.  I  like  The  Mus- 
suck, and  I  won't  have  you  call  him  names.  He  amuses 
me.' 

'He  has  reformed  you,  too,  by  what  appears.  Ex- 
plain the  interval  of  sanity,  and  hit  Tim  on  the  nose  with 
the  paper-cutter,  please.  That  dog  is  too  fond  of 
sugar.  Do  you  take  milk  in  yours?' 

'No,  thanks.  Polly,  I'm  wearied  of  this  life.  It's 
hollow.' 

'Turn  religious,  then.  I  always  said  that  Rome 
would  be  your  fate.' 

'Only  exchanging  half  a  dozen  attaches  in  red  for 


6  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

one  in  black,  and  if  I  fasted,  the  wrinkles  would  come, 
and  never,  never  go.  Has  it  ever  struck  you,  dear, 
that  I'm  getting  old?' 

'Thanks  for  your  courtesy.  I'll  return  it.  Ye-es, 
we  are  both  not  exactly — how  shall  I  put  it? ' 

'What  we  have  been.  "I  feel  it  in  my  bones,"  as 
Mrs.  Crossley  says.  Polly,  I've  wasted  my  life.* 

'As  how?' 

'Never  mind  how.  I  feel  it.  I  want  to  be  a  Power 
before  I  die.' 

'Be  a  Power  then.  You've  wits  enough  for  any- 
thing— and  beauty?' 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  pointed  a  teaspoon  straight  at  her 
hostess.  'Polly,  if  you  heap  compliments  on  me  like 
this,  I  shall  cease  to  believe  that  you're  a  woman.  Tell 
me  how  I  am  to  be  a  Power.' 

'  Inform  The  Mussuck  that  he  is  the  most  fascinating 
and  slimmest  man  in  Asia,  and  he'll  tell  you  anything 
and  everything  you  please.' 

'Bother  The  Mussuck!  I  mean  an  intellectual  Power 
— not  a  gas-power.  Polly,  I'm  going  to  start  a 
salon.' 

Mrs.  Mallowe  turned  lazily  on  the  sofa  and  rested  her 
head  on  her  hand.  'Hear  the  words  of  the  Preacher,  the 
son  of  Baruch,'  she  said. 

'  Will  you  talk  sensibly? ' 

'I  will,  dear,  for  I  see  that  you  are  going  to  make  a 
mistake.' 

'I  never  made  a  mistake  in  my  life — at  least,  never 
one  that  I  couldn't  explain  afterwards.' 

'Going  to  make  a  mistake,'  went  on  Mrs.  Mallowe 
composedly.  'It  is  impossible  to  start  a  salon  in  Simla. 
A  bar  would  be  much  more  to  the  point.' 

'Perhaps,  but  why?    It  seems  so  easy.' 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE         7 

'Just  what  makes  it  so  difficult.  How  many  clever 
women  are  there  in  Simla? ' 

'Myself  and  yourself/  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  without  a 
moment's  hesitation. 

'Modest  woman!  Mrs.  Feardon  would  thank  you 
for  that.  And  how  many  clever  men? ' 

'Oh — er — hundreds/  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  vaguely. 

'What  a  fatal  blunder!  Not  one.  They  are  all 
bespoke  by  the  Government.  Take  my  husband,  for 
instance.  Jack  was  a  clever  man,  though  I  say  so  who 
shouldn't.  Government  has  eaten  him  up.  All  his 
ideas  and  powers  of  conversation — he  really  used  to  be 
a  good  talker,  even  to  his  wife,  in  the  old  days — are 
taken  from  him  by  this — this  kitchen-sink  of  a  Gov- 
ernment. That's  the  case  with  every  man  up  here  who 
is  at  work.  I  don't  suppose  a  Russian  convict  under 
the  knout  is  able  to  amuse  the  rest  of  his  gang;  and 
all  our  men-folk  here  are  gilded  convicts.' 

'But  there  are  scores — 

'I  know  what  you're  going  to  say.  Scores  of  idle 
men  up  on  leave.  I  admit  it,  but  they  are  all  of  two 
objectionable  sets.  The  Civilian  who'd  be  delightful 
if  he  had  the  military  man's  knowledge  of  the  world 
and  style,  and  the  military  man  who'd  be  adorable  if 
he  had  the  Civilian's  culture.' 

'Detestable  word!  Have  Civilians  culchaw?  I  never 
studied  the  breed  deeply.' 

'Don't  make  fun  of  Jack's  service.  Yes.  They're 
like  the  teapoys  in  the  Lakka  Bazar — good  material 
but  not  polished.  They  can't  help  themselves,  poor 
dears.  A  Civilian  only  begins  to  be  tolerable  after  he 
has  knocked  about  the  world  for  fifteen  years.' 

'And  a  military  man?' 

'When  he  has  had  the  same  amount  of  service.    The 


8  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

young  of  both  species  are  horrible.  You  would  have 
scores  of  them  in  your  salon.' 

'I  would  not!'  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  fiercely.  'I 
would  tell  the  bearer  to  danuaza  band  them.  I'd  put 
their  own  colonels  and  commissioners  at  the  door  to 
turn  them  away.  I'd  give  them  to  the  Topsham  girl 
to  play  with.' 

'The  Topsham  girl  would  be  grateful  for  the  gift. 
But  to  go  back  to  the  salon.  Allowing  that  you  had 
gathered  all  your  men  and  women  together,  what  would 
you  do  with  them?  Make  them  talk?  They  would  all 
with  one  accord  begin  to  flirt.  Your  salon  would  become 
a  glorified  Peliti's — a  "  Scandal  Point "  by  lamplight.' 

'There's  a  certain  amount  of  wisdom  in  that  view.' 

'There's  all  the  wisdom  in  the  world  in  it.  Surely, 
twelve  Simla  seasons  ought  to  have  taught  you  that 
you  can't  focus  anything  in  India;  and  a  salon,  to  be 
any  good  at  all,  must  be  permanent.  In  two  seasons 
your  roomful  would  be  scattered  all  over  Asia.  We 
are  only  little  bits  of  dirt  on  the  hillsides — here  one 
day  and  blown  down  the  khud  the  next.  We  have  lost 
the  art  of  talking — at  least  our  men  have.  We  have  no 
cohesion — 

'George  Eliot  in  the  flesh,'  interpolated  Mrs.  Hauks- 
bee wickedly. 

'And  collectively,  my  dear  scoffer,  we,  men  and 
women  alike,  have  no  influence.  Come  into  the  veranda 
and  look  at  the  Mall!' 

The  two  looked  down  on  the  now  rapidly  filling  road, 
for  all  Simla  was  abroad  to  steal  a  stroll  between  a 
shower  and  a  fog. 

'How  do  you  propose  to  fix  that  river?  Look! 
There's  The  Mussuck — head  of  goodness  knows  what. 
He  is  a  power  in  the  land,  though  he  does  eat  like  a 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE  9 

costermonger.  There's  Colonel  Blone,  and  General 
Grucher,  and  Sir  Dugald  Delane,  and  Sir  Henry  Haugh- 
ton,  and  Mr.  Jellalatty.  All  Heads  of  Departments, 
and  all  powerful.' 

'And  all  my  fervent  admirers,'  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
piously.  'Sir  Henry  Haughton  raves  about  me.  But 
go  on.' 

'One  by  one,  these  men  are  worth  something.  Col- 
lectively, they're  just  a  mob  of  Anglo-Indians.  Who 
cares  for  what  Anglo-Indians  say?  Your  salon  won't 
weld  the  Departments  together  and  make  you  mistress 
of  India,  dear.  And  these  creatures  won't  talk  admin- 
istrative "shop"  in  a  crowd — your  salon — because 
they  are  so  afraid  of  the  men  in  the  lower  ranks  over- 
hearing it.  They  have  forgotten  what  of  Literature 
and  Art  they  ever  knew,  and  the  women y 

'Can't  talk  about  anything  except  the  last  Gym- 
khana, or  the  sins  of  their  last  nurse.  I  was  calling  on 
Mrs.  Derwills  this  morning.' 

'You  admit  that?  They  can  talk  to  the  subalterns 
though,  and  the  subalterns  can  talk  to  them.  Your 
salon  would  suit  their  views  admirably,  if  you  respected 
the  religious  prejudices  of  the  country  and  provided 
plenty  of  kala  juggahs .' 

'Plenty  of  kala  juggahs.  Oh  my  poor  little  idea! 
Kala  juggahs  in  a  salon!  But  who  made  you  so  awfully 
clever? ' 

'Perhaps  I've  tried  myself;  or  perhaps  I  know  a 
woman  who  has.  I  have  preached  and  expounded  the 
whole  matter  and  the  conclusion  thereof— 

'You  needn't  go  on.  "Is  Vanity."  Polly,  I  thank 
you.  These  vermin' — Mrs.  Hauksbee  waved  her  hand 
from  the  veranda  to  two  men  in  the  crowd  below  who 
had  raised  their  hats  to  her — 'these  vermin  shall  not 


jo  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

rejoice  in  a  new  Scandal  Point  or  an  extra  Peliti's.  I 
will  abandon  the  notion  of  a  salon.  It  did  seem  so 
tempting,  though.  But  what  shall  I  do?  I  must  do 
something.' 

'Why?    Are  not  Abana  and  Pharphar — 

'Jack  has  made  you  nearly  as  bad  as  himself!  I 
want  to,  of  course.  I'm  tired  of  everything  and  every- 
body, from  a  moonlight  picnic  at  Seepee  to  the  blan- 
dishments of  The  Mussuck.' 

'Yes — that  comes,  too,  sooner  or  later.  Have  you 
nerve  enough  to  make  your  bow  yet? ' 

Mrs.  Hauksbee's  mouth  shut  grimly.  Then  she 
laughed.  'I  think  I  see  myself  doing  it.  Big  pink 
placards  on  the  Mall:  "Mrs.  Hauksbee!  Positively 
her  last  appearance  on  any  stage!  This  is  to  give 
notice!"  No  more  dances;  no  more  rides;  no  more 
luncheons;  no  more  theatricals  with  supper  to  follow; 
no  more  sparring  with  one's  dearest,  dearest  friend;  no 
more  fencing  with  an  inconvenient  man  who  hasn't  wit 
enough  to  clothe  what  he's  pleased  to  call  his  senti- 
ments in  passable  speech;  no  more  parading  of  The 
Mussuck  while  Mrs.  Tarkass  calls  all  round  Simla, 
spreading  horrible  stories  about  me!  No  more  of  any- 
thing that  is  thoroughly  wearying,  abominable  and 
detestable,  but,  all  the  same,  makes  life  worth  the 
having.  Yes!  I  see  it  all!  Don't  interrupt,  Polly, 
I'm  inspired.  A  mauve  and  white  striped  "cloud" 
round  my  excellent  shoulders,  a  seat  in  the  fifth  row 
of  the  Gaiety,  and  both  horses  sold.  Delightful  vision! 
A  comfortable  arm-chair,  situated  in  three  different 
draughts,  at  every  ballroom,  and  nice,  large,  sensible 
shoes  for  all  the  couples  to  stumble  over  as  they  go 
into  the  veranda!  Then  at  supper.  Can't  you  imag- 
ine the  scene?  The  greedy  mob  gone  away.  Reluc- 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE  u 

tant  subaltern,  pink  all  over  like  a  newly-powdered 
baby, — they  really  ought  to  tan  subalterns  before  they 
are  exported,  Polly — sent  back  by  the  hostess  to  do- 
his  duty.  Slouches  up  to  me  across  the  room,  tugging 
at  a  glove  two  sizes  too  large  for  him — I  hate  a  man 
who  wears  gloves  like  overcoats — and  trying  to  look 
as  if  he'd  thought  of  it  from  the  first.  "May  I  ah-have 
the  pleasure  'f  takin'  you  'nt'  supper?"  Then  I  get 
up  with  a  hungry  smile.  Just  like  this.' 

'Lucy,  how  can  you  be  so  absurd?' 

'And  sweep  out  on  his  arm.  So!  After  supper  I 
shall  go  away  early,  you  know,  because  I  shall  be  afraid 
of  catching  cold.  No  one  will  look  for  my  'rickshaw. 
Mine,  so  please  you!  I  shall  stand,  always  with  that 
mauve  and  white  "cloud"  over  my  head,  while  the 
wet  soaks  into  my  dear,  old,  venerable  feet  and  Tom 
swears  and  shouts  for  the  memsahib's  gharri.  Then 
home  to  bed  at  half -past  eleven!  Truly  excellent  life 
— helped  out  by  the  visits  of  the  Padri,  just  fresh  from 
burying  somebody  down  below  there.'  She  pointed 
through  the  pines,  towards  the  Cemetery,  and  con- 
tinued with  vigorous  dramatic  gesture — 

'Listen!  I  see  it  all — down,  down  even  to  the  stays L 
Such  stays!  Six-eight  a  pair,  Polly,  with  red  flannel 
— or  list  is  it? — that  they  put  into  the  tops  of  those  fear- 
ful things.  I  can  draw  you  a  picture  of  them.' 

'Lucy,  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  go  waving  your  arms 
about  in  that  idiotic  manner!  Recollect,  every  one  can 
see  you  from  the  Mall.' 

'Let  them  see!  They'll  think  I  am  rehearsing  for 
The  Fallen  Angel.  Look!  There's  The  Mussuck.  How 
badly  he  rides.  There!' 

She  blew  a  kiss  to  the  venerable  Indian  administrator 
with  infinite  grace. 


12  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

'Now,'  she  continued,  'he'll  be  chaffed  about  that 
at  the  Club  in  the  delicate  manner  those  brutes  of  men 
affect,  and  the  Hawley  Boy  will  tell  me  all  about  it 
— softening  the  details  for  fear  of  shocking  me.  That 
boy  is  too  good  to  live,  Polly.  I've  serious  thoughts 
of  recommending  him  to  throw  up  his  Commission  and 
go  into  the  Church.  In  his  present  frame  of  mind  he 
would  obey  me.  Happy,  happy  child ! ' 

'Never  again,'  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  with  an  affecta- 
tion of  indignation,  'shall  you  tiffin  here!  "Lucindy, 
your  behaviour  is  scand'lus. " 

'All  your  fault,'  retorted  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  'for  sug- 
gesting such  a  thing  as  my  abdication.  No!  Jamais- 
nevaire!  I  will  act,  dance,  ride,  frivol,  talk  scandal, 
dine  out,  and  appropriate  the  legitimate  captives  of 
any  woman  I  choose,  until  I  d-r-r-rop,  or  a  better  wo- 
man than  I  puts  me  to  shame  before  all  Simla, — and 
it's  dust  and  ashes  in  my  mouth  while  I'm  doing  it!' 

She  swept  into  the  drawing-room.  Mrs.  Mallowe 
followed  and  put  an  arm  round  her  waist. 

'I'm  not!'  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  defiantly,  rummag- 
ing for  her  handkerchief.  'I've  been  dining  out  the 
last  ten  nights,  and  rehearsing  in  the  afternoon.  You'd 
be  tired  yourself.  It's  only  because  I'm  tired.' 

Mrs.  Mallowe  did  not  offer  Mrs.  Hauksbee  any  pity 
or  ask  her  to  lie  down,  but  gave  her  another  cup  of 
tea,  and  went  on  with  the  talk. 

'I've  been  through  that  too,  dear,'  she  said. 

'I  remember,'  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  a  gleam  of  fun 
on  her  face.  'In  '84,  wasn't  it?  You  went  out  a  great 
deal  less  next  season.' 

Mrs.  Mallowe  smiled  in  a  superior  and  Sphinx-like 
fashion. 

'I  became  an  Influence,'  said  she. 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE  13 

'Good  gracious,  child,  you  didn't  join  the  Theoso- 
phists  and  kiss  Buddha's  big  toe,  did  you?  I  tried  to 
get  into  their  set  once,  but  they  cast  me  out  for  a  sceptic 
— without  a  chance  of  improving  my  poor  little  mind, 
too.' 

'No,  I  didn't  Theosophilander.     Jack  says — 

'Never  mind  Jack.  What  a  husband  says  is  known 
before.  What  did  you  do?' 

'I  made  a  lasting  impression.' 

'So  have  I — for  four  months.  But  that  didn't  con- 
sole me  in  the  least.  I  hated  the  man.  Will  you  stop 
smiling  in  that  inscrutable  way  and  tell  me  what  you 
mean? ' 

Mrs.  Mallowe  told. 


'And — you — mean — to — say  that  it  is  absolutely  Pla- 
tonic on  both  sides? ' 

'Absolutely,  or  I  should  never  have  taken  it  up.' 

'And  his  last  promotion  was  due  to  you?' 

Mrs.  Mallowe  nodded. 

'And  you  warned  him  against  the  Topsham  girl?' 

Another  nod. 

'And  told  him  of  Sir  Dugald  Delane's  private  memo 
about  him?' 

A  third  nod. 

'Why?' 

'What  a  question  to  ask  a  woman!  Because  it 
amused  me  at  first.  I  am  proud  of  my  property  now. 
If  I  live,  he  shall  continue  to  be  successful.  Yes,  I 
will  put  him  upon  the  straight  road  to  Knighthood, 
and  everything  else  that  a  man  values.  The  rest  de- 
pends upon  himself.' 

'Polly,  you  are  a  most  extraordinary  woman,' 


14  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

'Not  in  the  least.  I'm  concentrated,  that's  all. 
You  diffuse  yourself,  dear;  and  though  all  Simla  knows 
your  skill  in  managing  a  team — 

'  Can't  you  choose  a  prettier  word? ' 

'Team,  of  half  a  dozen,  from  The  Mussuck  to  the 
Hawley  Boy,  you  gain  nothing  by  it.  Not  even  amuse- 
ment.' 

'And  you?' 

'Try  my  recipe.  Take  a  man,  not  a  boy,  mind,  but 
an  almost  mature,  unattached  man,  and  be  his  guide, 
philosopher,  and  friend.  You'll  find  it  the  most  in- 
teresting occupation  that  you  ever  embarked  on.  It 
can  be  done — you  needn't  look  like  that — because  I've 
done  it.' 

'There's  an  element  of  risk  about  it  that  makes  the 
notion  attractive.  I'll  get  such  a  man  and  say  to  him, 
"Now,  understand  that  there  must  be  no  flirtation.  Do 
exactly  what  I  tell  you,  profit  by  my  instruction  and 
counsels,  and  all  will  yet  be  well."  Is  that  the  idea?' 

'More  or  less,'  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  with  an  unfathom- 
able smile.  '  But  be  sure  he  understands.' 


n 

Dribble-dribble— trickle-trickle— 

What  a  lot  of  raw  dust! 
My  dollie's  had  an  accident 

And  out  came  all  the  sawdust! 

Nursery  Rhyme. 

So  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  in  'The  Foundry'  which  overlooks 
Simla  Mall,  sat  at  the  feet  of  Mrs.  Mallowe  and 
gathered  wisdom.  The  end  of  the  Conference  was  the 
Great  Idea  upon  which  Mrs.  Hauksbee  so  plumed  her- 
self. 

'I  warn  you,'  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  beginning  to  repent 
of  her  suggestion,  'that  the  matter  is  not  half  so  easy 
as  it  looks.  Any  woman — even  the  Topsham  girl — can 
catch  a  man,  but  very,  very  few  know  how  to  manage 
him  when  caught.' 

'My  child,'  was  the  answer,  'I've  been  a  female  St. 
Simon  Stylites  looking  down  upon  men  for  these — 
these  years  past.  Ask  The  Mussuck  whether  I  can  man- 
age them.' 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  departed  humming,  Til  go  to  him  and 
say  to  him  in  manner  most  ironical.'  Mrs.  Mallowe 
laughed  to  herself.  Then  she  grew  suddenly  sober.  'I 
wonder  whether  I've  done  well  in  advising  that  amuse- 
ment? Lucy's  a  clever  woman,  but  a  thought  too  care- 
less.' 

A  week  later,  the  two  met  at  a  Monday  Pop.  'Well?' 
said  Mrs.  Mallowe. 


16  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

'I've  caught  him!'  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee;  her  eyes  were 
dancing  with  merriment. 

'Who  is  it,  mad  woman?  I'm  sorry  I  ever  spoke  to 
you  about  it.' 

'Look  between  the  pillars.  In  the  third  row;  fourth 
from  the  end.  You  can  see  his  face  now.  Look!' 

'Otis  Yeere!  Of  all  the  improbable  and  impossible 
people!  I  don't  believe  you.' 

'Hsh!  Wait  till  Mrs.  Tarkass  begins  murdering 
Milton  Wellings;  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  S-s-ss  ! 
That  woman's  voice  always  reminds  me  of  an  Under- 
ground train  coming  into  Earl's  Court  with  the  brakes 
on.  Now  listen.  It  is  really  Otis  Yeere.' 

'So  I  see,  but  does  it  follow  that  he  is  your  property?' 

'He  is!  By  right  of  trove.  I  found  him,  lonely 
and  unbefriended,  the  very  next  night  after  our  talk, 
at  the  Dugald  Delane's  burra-khana.  I  liked  his  eyes, 
and  I  talked  to  him.  Next  day  he  called.  Next  day 
we  went  for  a  ride  together,  and  to-day  he's  tied  to 
my  'rickshaw-wheels  hand  and  foot.  You'll  see  when 
ihe  concert's  over.  He  doesn't  know  I'm  here  yet.' 

'Thank  goodness  you  haven't  chosen  a  boy.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  with  him,  assuming  that  you've 
got  him?' 

'Assuming,  indeed!  Does  a  woman — do  7 — ever 
make  a  mistake  in  that  sort  of  thing?  First' — Mrs. 
Hauksbee  ticked  off  the  items  ostentatiously  on  her 
little  gloved  fingers — 'First,  my  dear,  I  shall  dress 
him  properly.  At  present  his  raiment  is  a  disgrace, 
and  he  wears  a  dress-shirt  like  a  crumpled  sheet  of  the 
Pioneer.  Secondly,  after  I  have  made  him  presentable, 
I  shall  form  his  manners — his  morals  are  above  reproach.' 

'You  seem  to  have  discovered  a  great  deal  about  him 
considering  the  shortness  of  your  acquaintance.* 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE  17 

'Surely  you  ought  to  know  that  the  first  proof  a 
man  gives  of  his  interest  in  a  woman  is  by  talking  to 
her  about  his  own  sweet  self.  If  the  woman  listens 
without  yawning,  he  begins  to  like  her.  If  she  flatters 
the  animal's  vanity,  he  ends  by  adoring  her.' 

'In  some  cases.' 

'Never  mind  the  exceptions.  I  know  which  one 
you  are  thinking  of.  Thirdly,  and  lastly,  after  he  is 
polished  and  made  pretty,  I  shall,  as  you  said,  be  his 
guide,  philosopher,  and  friend,  and  he  shall  become  a 
success — as  great  a  success  as  your  friend.  I  always 
wondered  how  that  man  got  on.  Did  The  Mussuck 
come  to  you  with  the  Civil  List  and,  dropping  on  one 
knee — no,  two  knees,  a  la  Gibbon — hand  it  to  you  and 
say,  "Adorable  angel,  choose  your  friend's  appoint- 
ment"?' 

'Lucy,  your  long  experiences  of  the  Military  Depart- 
ment have  demoralised  you.  One  doesn't  do  that  sort 
of  thing  on  the  Civil  Side.' 

'No  disrespect  meant  to  Jack's  Service,  my  dear. 
I  only  asked  for  information.  Give  me  three  months, 
and  see  what  changes  I  shall  work  in  my  prey.' 

'Go  your  own  way  since  you  must.  But  I'm  sorry 
that  I  was  weak  enough  to  suggest  the  amusement.' 

'"I  am  all  discretion,  and  may  be  trusted  to  an  in- 
fin-ite  extent,"'  quoted  Mrs.  Hauksbee  from  The  Fallen 
Angel;  and  the  conversation  ceased  with  Mrs.  Tar- 
kass's  last,  long-drawn  war-whoop. 

Her  bitterest  enemies — and  she  had  many — could 
hardly  accuse  Mrs.  Hauksbee  of  wasting  her  time. 
Otis  Yeere  was  one  of  those  wandering  'dumb'  charac- 
ters, foredoomed  through  life  to  be  nobody's  property. 
Ten  years  in  Her  Majesty's  Bengal  Civil  Service,  spent, 
for  the  most  part,  in  undesirable  Districts,  had  given 


i8  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

him  little  to  be  proud  of,  and  nothing  to  bring  confi- 
dence. Old  enough  to  have  lost  the  first  fine  careless 
rapture  that  showers  on  the  immature  'Stunt  imaginary 
Commissionerships  and  Stars,  and  sends  him  into  the 
collar  with  coltish  earnestness  and  abandon;  too  young 
to  be  yet  able  to  look  back  upon  the  progress  he  had 
made,  and  thank  Providence  that  under  the  conditions 
of  the  day  he  had  come  even  so  far,  he  stood  upon  the 
dead-centre  of  his  career.  And  when  a  man  stands 
still,  he  feels  the  slightest  impulse  from  without.  For- 
tune had  ruled  that  Otis  Yeere  should  be,  for  the  first 
part  of  his  service,  one  of  the  rank  and  file  who  are 
ground  up  in  the  wheels  of  the  Administration;  losing 
heart  and  soul,  and  mind  and  strength,  in  the  process. 
Until  steam  replaces  manual  power  in  the  working  of  the 
Empire,  there  must  always  be  this  percentage — musi 
always  be  the  men  who  are  used  up,  expended,  in  the 
mere  mechanical  routine.  For  these  promotion  is  far 
off  and  the  mill-grind  of  every  day  very  instant.  The 
Secretariats  know  them  only  by  name;  they  are  not  the 
picked  men  of  the  Districts  with  Divisions  and  Collec  • 
torates  awaiting  them.  They  are  simply  the  rank  and 
file — the  food  for  fever — sharing  with  the  ryot  and  the 
plough-bullock  the  honour  of  being  the  plinth  on  which 
the  State  rests.  The  older  ones  have  lost  their  aspi- 
rations; the  younger  are  putting  theirs  aside  with  a  sigh. 
Both  learn  to  endure  patiently  until  the  end  of  the  day. 
Twelve  years  in  the  rank  and  file,  men  say,  will  sap  the 
hearts  of  the  bravest  and  dull  the  wits  of  the  most  keen. 
Out  of  this  life  Otis  Yeere  had  fled  for  a  few  months; 
drifting,  in  the  hope  of  a  little  masculine  society,  into 
Simla.  When  his  leave  was  over  he  would  return  to 
his  swampy,  sour-green,  under-manned  Bengal  district; 
to  the  native  Assistant,  the  native  Doctor,  the  native 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE  19 

Magistrate,  the  steaming,  sweltering  Station,  the  ill- 
kempt  City,  and  the  undisguised  insolence  of  the  Mu- 
nicipality that  babbled  away  the  lives  of  men.  Life 
was  cheap,  however.  The  soil  spawned  humanity,  as 
it  bred  frogs  in  the  Rains,  and  the  gap  of  the  sickness 
of  one  season  was  filled  to  overflowing  by  the  fecundity 
of  the  next.  Otis  was  unfeignedly  thankful  to  lay 
down  his  work  for  a  little  while  and  escape  from  the 
seething,  whining,  weakly  hive,  impotent  to  help  itself, 
but  strong  in  its  power  to  cripple,  thwart,  and  annoy 
the  sunken-eyed  man  who,  by  official  irony,  was  said 
to  be  'in  charge'  of  it. 


'I  knew  there  were  women-dowdies  in  Bengal.  They 
come  up  here  sometimes.  But  I  didn't  know  that  there 
were  men-do wds,  too.' 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  it  occurred  to  Otis  Yeere 
that  his  clothes  wore  the  mark  of  the  ages.  It  will  be 
seen  that  his  friendship  with  Mrs.  Hauksbee  had  made 
great  strides. 

As  that  lady  truthfully  says,  a  man  is  never  so  happy 
as  when  he  is  talking  about  himself.  From  Otis  Yeere's 
lips  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  before  long,  learned  everything 
that  she  wished  to  know  about  the  subject  of  her  ex- 
periment: learned  what  manner  of  life  he  had  led  in 
what  she  vaguely  called  'those  awful  cholera  districts'; 
learned,  too,  but  this  knowledge  came  later,  what  man- 
ner of  life  he  had  purposed  to  lead  and  what  dreams  he 
had  dreamed  in  the  year  of  grace  '77,  before  the  reality 
had  knocked  the  heart  out  of  him.  Very  pleasant  are 
the  shady  bridle-paths  round  Prospect  Hill  for  the  tell- 
ing of  such  confidences. 

'Not  yet,'  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  to  Mrs.  Mallowe. 


20  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

'  Not  yet.  I  must  wait  until  the  man  is  properly  dressed, 
at  least.  Great  Heavens,  is  it  possible  that  he  doesn't 
know  what  an  honour  it  is  to  be  taken  up  by  Me  I ' 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  did  not  reckon  false  modesty  as  one  of 
her  failings. 

'Always  with  Mrs.  Hauksbee!'  murmured  Mrs.  Mal- 
lowe,  with  her  sweetest  smile,  to  Otis.  'Oh  you  men, 
you  men!  Here  are  our  Punjabis  growling  because 
you've  monopolised  the  nicest  woman  in  Simla.  They'll 
tear  you  to  pieces  on  the  Mall,  some  day,  Mr.  Yeere.' 

Mrs.  Mallowe  rattled  down-hill,  having  satisfied  her- 
self, by  a  glance  through  the  fringe  of  her  sunshade,  of 
the  effect  of  her  words. 

The  shot  went  home.  Of  a  surety  Otis  Yeere  was 
somebody  in  this  bewildering  whirl  of  Simla — had 
monopolised  the  nicest  woman  in  it  and  the  Punjabis 
were  growling.  The  notion  justified  a  mild  glow  of 
vanity.  He  had  never  looked  upon  his  acquaintance 
with  Mrs.  Hauksbee  as  a  matter  for  general  interest. 

The  knowledge  of  envy  was  a  pleasant  feeling  to  the 
man  of  no  account.  It  was  intensified  later  in  the  day 
when  a  luncher  at  the  Club  said  spitefully,  'Well,  for  a 
debilitated  Ditcher,  Yeere,  you  are  going  it.  Hasn't 
any  kind  friend  told  you  that  she's  the  most  dangerous 
woman  in  Simla?' 

Yeere  chuckled  and  passed  out.  When,  oh  when, 
would  his  new  clothes  be  ready?  He  descended  into 
the  Mall  to  inquire;  and  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  coming  over 
the  Church  Ridge  in  her  'rickshaw,  looked  down  upon 
him  approvingly.  'He's  learning  to  carry  himself  as 
if  he  were  a  man,  instead  of  a  piece  of  furniture, — and,' 
she  screwed  up  her  eyes  to  see  the  better  through  the 
sunlight — 'he  is  a  man  when  he  holds  himself  like  that. 
Oh  blessed  Conceit,  what  should  we  be  without  you?' 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE  21 

With  the  new  clothes  came  a  new  stock  of  self-confi- 
dence. Otis  Yeere  discovered  that  he  could  enter  a 
room  without  breaking  into  a  gentle  perspiration — 
could  cross  one,  even  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  as 
though  rooms  were  meant  to  be  crossed.  He  was  for 
the  first  time  in  nine  years  proud  of  himself,  and  con- 
tented with  his  life,  satisfied  with  his  new  clothes,  and 
rejoicing  in  the  friendship  of  Mrs.  Hauksbee. 

'Conceit  is  what  the  poor  fellow  wants/  she  said  in 
confidence  to  Mrs.  Mallowe.  'I  believe  they  must  use 
Civilians  to  plough  the  fields  with  in  Lower  Bengal. 
You  see  I  have  to  begin  from  the  very  beginning— 
haven't  I  ?  But  you'll  admit,  won't  you,  dear,  that  he 
is  immensely  improved  since  I  took  him  in  hand.  Only 
give  me  a  little  more  time  and  he  won't  know  himself.' 

Indeed,  Yeere  was  rapidly  beginning  to  forget  what 
he  had  been.  One  of  his  own  rank  and  file  put  the 
matter  brutally  when  he  asked  Yeere,  in  reference  to 
nothing,  'And  who  has  been  making  you  a  Member  of 
Council,  lately?  You  carry  the  side  of  half  a  dozen 
of  'em.' 

'I — I'm  awf'ly  sorry.  I  didn't  mean  it,  you  know/ 
said  Yeere  apologetically. 

'There'll  be  no  holding  you/  continued  the  old  stager 
grimly.  'Climb  down,  Otis — climb  down,  and  get  all 
that  beastly  affectation  knocked  out  of  you  with  fever! 
Three  thousand  a  month  wouldn't  support  it.' 

Yeere  repeated  the  incident  to  Mrs.  Hauksbee.  He 
had  come  to  look  upon  her  as  his  Mother  Confessor. 

'And  you  apologised!'  she  said.  'Oh,  shame!  I 
hate  a  man  who  apologises.  Never  apologise  for  what 
your  friend  called  "side."  Never!  It's  a  man's  busi- 
ness to  be  insolent  and  overbearing  until  he  meets  with 
a  stronger.  Nor/,  you  bad  boy,  listen  to  me.' 


22  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Simply  and  straightforwardly,  as  the  'rickshaw  loitered 
round  Jakko,  Mrs.  Hauksbee  preached  to  Otis  Yeere 
the  Great  Gospel  of  Conceit,  illustrating  it  with  living 
pictures  encountered  during  their  Sunday  afternoon 
stroll. 

'Good  gracious!'  she  ended  with  the  personal  argu- 
ment, 'you'll  apologise  next  for  being  my  attachi?' 

'Never! '  said  Otis  Yeere.  'That's  another  thing  alto- 
gether. I  shall  always  be ' 

'What's  coming? '  thought  Mrs.  Hauksbee. 

'Proud  of  that,'  said  Otis. 

'  Safe  for  the  present/  she  said  to  herself. 

'  But  I'm  afraid  I  have  grown  conceited.  Like  Jeshu- 
run,  you  know.  When  he  waxed  fat,  then  he  kicked. 
It's  the  having  no  worry  on  one's  mind  and  the  Hill 
air,  I  suppose.' 

'Hill  air,  indeed!'  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  to  herself. 
'He'd  have  been  hiding  in  the  Club  till  the  last  day  of 
his  leave,  if  I  hadn't  discovered  him.'  And  aloud — 

'Why  shouldn't  you  be?    You  have  every  right  to.' 

'I!    Why?' 

'Oh,  hundreds  of  things.  I'm  not  going  to  waste 
this  lovely  afternoon  by  explaining;  but  I  know  you 
have.  What  was  that  heap  of  manuscript  you  showed 
me  about  the  grammar  of  the  aboriginal — what's  their 
names? ' 

'Gullals.  A  piece  of  nonsense.  I've  far  too  much 
work  to  do  to  bother  over  Gullals  now.  You  should 
see  my  District.  Come  down  with  your  husband  some 
day  and  I'll  show  you  round.  Such  a  lovely  place  in 
the  Rains!  A  sheet  of  water  with  the  railway-embank- 
ment and  the  snakes  sticking  out,  and,  in  the  summer, 
green  flies  and  green  squash.  The  people  would  die  of 
fear  if  you  shook  a  dogwhip  at  'em.  But  they  know 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE  33 

you're  forbidden  to  do  that,  so  they  conspire  to  make 
your  life  a  burden  to  you.  My  District's  worked  by 
some  man  at  Darjiling,  on  the  strength  of  a  native 
pleader's  false  reports.  Oh,  it's  a  heavenly  place!' 

Otis  Yeere  laughed  bitterly. 

'There's  not  the  least  necessity  that  you  should  stay 
in  it.  Why  do  you? ' 

'Because  I  must.    How'm  I  to  get  out  of  it?' 

'How !  In  a  hundred  and  fifty  ways.  If  there  weren't 
so  many  people  on  the  road,  I'd  like  to  box  your  ears. 
Ask,  my  dear  boy,  ask  !  Look !  There  is  young  Hexarly 
with  six  years'  service  and  half  your  talents.  He  asked 
for  what  he  wanted,  and  he  got  it.  See,  down  by  the 
Convent!  There's  McArthurson  who  has  come  to  his 
present  position  by  asking — sheer,  downright  asking — 
after  he  had  pushed  himself  out  of  the  rank  and  file.  One 
man  is  as  good  as  another  in  your  service — believe  me. 
I've  seen  Simla  for  more  seasons  than  I  care  to  think 
about.  Do  you  suppose  men  are  chosen  for  appointments 
because  of  their  special  fitness  beforehand  ?  You  have  all 
passed  a  high  test — what  do  you  call  it? — in  the  beginning, 
and,  except  for  the  few  who  have  gone  altogether  to  the 
bad ,  you  can  all  work  hard.  Asking  does  the  rest.  Call 
it  cheek,  call  it  insolence,  call  it  anything  you  like,  but 
ask!  Men  argue — yes,  I  know  what  men  say — that  a 
man,  by  the  mere  audacity  of  his  request,  must  have  some 
good  in  him.  A  weak  man  doesn't  say:  "Give  me  this 
and  that."  He  whines:  "  Why  haven't  I  been  given  this 
and  that?"  If  you  were  in  the  Army,  I  should  say  learn 
to  spin  plates  or  play  a  tambourine  with  your  toes.  As  it 
is — ask!  You  belong  to  a  Service  that  ought  to  be  able 
to  command  the  Channel  Fleet,  or  set  a  leg  at  twenty 
minutes'  notice,  and  yet  you  hesitate  over  asking  to 
escape  from  a  squashy  green  district  where  you  admit  you 


24  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

are  not  master.  Drop  the  Bengal  Government  alto- 
gether. Even  Darjiling  is  a  little  out-of-the-way  hole.  I 
was  there  once,  and  the  rents  were  extortionate.  Assert 
yourself.  Get  the  Government  of  India  to  take  you  over. 
Try  to  get  on  the  Frontier,  where  every  man  has  a  grand 
chance  if  he  can  trust  himself.  Go  somewhere !  Do  some- 
thing! You  have  twice  the  wits  and  three  times  the 
presence  of  the  men  up  here,  and,  and ' — Mrs.  Hauksbee 
paused  for  breath;  then  continued — 'and  in  any  way  you 
look  at  it,  you  ought  to.  You  who  could  go  so  far ! ' 

*I  don't  know,'  said  Yeere,  rather  taken  aback  by  the 
unexpected  eloquence.  '  I  haven't  such  a  good  opinion  of 
myself.' 

It  was  not  strictly  Platonic,  but  it  was  Policy.  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  laid  her  hand  lightly  upon  the  ungloved  paw 
that  rested  on  the  turned-backed  'rickshaw  hood,  and, 
looking  the  man  full  in  the  face,  said  tenderly,  almost  too 
tenderly,  '/  believe  in  you  if  you  mistrust  yourself.  Is 
that  enough,  my  friend? ' 

'It  is  enough/  answered  Otis  very  solemnly. 

He  was  silent  for  a  long  time,  redreaming  the  dreams 
that  he  had  dreamed  eight  years  ago,  but  through  them 
all  ran,  as  sheet-lightning  through  golden  cloud,  the  light 
of  Mrs.  Hauksbee's  violet  eyes. 

Curious  and  impenetrable  are  the  mazes  of  Simla  life — 
the  only  existence  in  this  desolate  land  worth  the  living. 
Gradually  it  went  abroad  among  men  and  women,  in  the 
pauses  between  dance,  play,  and  Gymkhana,  that  Otis 
Yeere,  the  man  with  the  newly-lit  light  of  self-confidence 
in  his  eyes,  had  'done  something  decent'  in  the  wilds 
whence  he  came.  He  had  brought  an  erring  Municipal- 
ity to  reason,  appropriated  the  funds  on  his  own  responsi- 
bility, and  saved  the  lives  of  hundreds.  He  knew  more 
about  the  Gullals  than  any  living  man.  Had  a  vast 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE  25 

knowledge  of  the  aboriginal  tribes;  was,  in  spite  of  his 
juniority,  the  greatest  authority  on  the  aboriginal  Gullals. 
No  one  quite  knew  who  or  what  the  Gullals  were  till  The 
Mussuck,  who  had  been  calling  on  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  and 
prided  himself  upon  picking  people's  brains,  explained 
they  were  a  tribe  of  ferocious  hillmen,  somewhere  near 
Sikkim,  whose  friendship  even  the  Great  Indian  Empire 
would  find  it  worth  her  while  to  secure.  Now  we  know 
that  Otis  Yeere  had  showed  Mrs.  Hauksbee  his  MS. 
notes  of  six  years'  standing  on  these  same  Gullals.  He  had 
told  her,  too,  how,  sick  and  shaken  with  the  fever  their 
negligence  had  bred,  crippled  by  the  loss  of  his  pet  clerk, 
and  savagely  angry  at  the  desolation  in  his  charge,  he  had 
once  damned  the  collective  eyes  of  his  'intelligent  local 
board'  for  a  set  of  haramzadas.  Which  act  of  '  brutal  and 
tyrannous  oppression '  won  him  a  Reprimand  Royal  from 
the  Bengal  Government;  but  in  the  anecdote  as  amended 
for  Northern  consumption  we  find  no  record  of  this. 
Hence  we  are  forced  to  conclude  that  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
edited  his  reminiscences  before  sowing  them  in  idle  ears, 
ready,  as  she  well  knew,  to  exaggerate  good  or  evil.  And 
Otis  Yeere  bore  himself  as  befitted  the  hero  of  many  tales. 

'You  can  talk  to  me  when  you  don't  fall  into  a  brown 
study.  Talk  now,  and  talk  your  brightest  and  best,'  said 
Mrs.  Hauksbee. 

Otis  needed  no  spur.  Look  to  a  man  who  has  the 
counsel  of  a  woman  of  or  above  the  world  to  back  him. 
So  long  as  he  keeps  his  head,  he  can  meet  both  sexes  on 
equal  ground — an  advantage  never  intended  by  Provi- 
dence, who  fashioned  Man  on  one  day  and  Woman  on  an- 
other, in  sign  that  neither  should  know  more  than  a  very 
little  of  the  other's  life.  Such  a  man  goes  far,  or,  the 
counsel  being  withdrawn,  collapses  suddenly  while  his 
world  seeks  the  reason. 


26  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Generalled  by  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  who,  again,  had  all  Mrs. 
Mallowe's  wisdom  at  her  disposal,  proud  of  himself  and, 
in  the  end,  believing  in  himself  because  he  was  believed 
in,  Otis  Yeere  stood  ready  for  any  fortune  that  might  be- 
fall, certain  that  it  would  be  good.  He  would  fight  for 
his  own  hand,  and  intended  that  this  second  struggle 
should  lean  to  better  issue  than  the  first  helpless  surrender 
of  the  bewildered  'Stunt. 

What  might  have  happened,  it  is  impossible  to  say. 
This  lamentable  thing  befell,  bred  directly  by  a  state- 
ment of  Mrs.  Hauksbee  that  she  would  spend  the  next 
season  in  Darjiling. 

'Are  you  certain  of  that? '  said  Otis  Yeere. 

1  Quite.     We're  writing  about  a  house  now.' 

Otis  Yeere  'stopped  dead,'  as  Mrs.  Hauksbee  put  it  in 
discussing  the  relapse  with  Mrs.  Mallowe. 

'He  has  behaved,'  she  said  angrily,  'just  like  Captain 
Kerrington's  pony — only  Otis  is  a  donkey — at  the  last 
Gymkhana.  Planted  his  forefeet  and  refused  to  go  on 
another  step.  Polly,  my  man's  going  to  disappoint  me. 
What  shall  I  do?' 

As  a  rule,  Mrs.  Mallowe  does  not  approve  of  staring, 
but  on  this  occasion  she  opened  her  eyes  to  the  utmost. 

'You  have  managed  cleverly  so  far,'  she  said.  'Speak 
to  him,  and  ask  him  what  he  means.' 

'  I  will — at  to-night's  dance.' 

'No — o,  not  at  a  dance,'  said  Mrs.  Mallowe  cautiously. 
'  Men  are  never  themselves  quite  at  dances.  Better  wait 
till  to-morrow  morning.' 

'Nonsense.  If  he's  going  to  'vert  in  this  insane  way, 
there  isn't  a  day  to  lose.  Are  you  going?  No?  Then 
sit  up  for  me,  there's  a  dear.  I  shan't  stay  longer  than 
supper  under  any  circumstances/ 

Mrs.  Mallowe  waited  through  the  evening,  looking  long 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE  27 

and  earnestly  into  the  fire,  and  sometimes  smiling  to 
herself. 


'Oh!  oh!  oh!  The  man's  an  idiot!  A  raving,  positive 
idiot !  I'm  sorry  I  ever  saw  him ! ' 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  burst  into  Mrs.  Mallowe's  house,  at 
midnight,  almost  in  tears. 

'What  in  the  world  has  happened? '  said  Mrs.  Mallowe, 
but  her  eyes  showed  that  she  had  guessed  an  answer. 

'Happened!  Everything  has  happened!  He  was 
there.  I  went  to  him  and  said,  "Now,  what  does  this 
nonsense  mean?"  Don't  laugh,  dear,  I  can't  bear  it. 
But  you  know  what  I  mean  I  said.  Then  it  was  a  square, 
and  I  sat  it  out  with  him  and  wanted  an  explanation,  and 
he  said — Oh!  I  haven't  patience  with  such  idiots!  You 
know  what  I  said  about  going  to  Darjiling  next  year?  It 
doesn't  matter  to  me  where  I  go.  I'd  have  changed  the 
Station  and  lost  the  rent  to  have  saved  this.  He  said,  in 
so  many  words,  that  he  wasn't  going  to  try  to  work  up 
any  more,  because — because  he  would  be  shifted  into  a 
province  away  from  Darjiling,  and  his  own  District, 
where  these  creatures  are,  is  within  a  day's  journey 

'  Ah— hh!'  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  in  a  tone  of  one  who  has 
successfully  tracked  an  obscure  word  through  a  large  dic- 
tionary. 

'Did  you  ever  hear  of  anything  so  mad — so  absurd? 
Ahd  he  had  the  ball  at  his  feet.  He  had  only  to  kick  it! 
I  would  have  made  him  anything  !  Anything  in  the  wide 
world.  He  could  have  gone  to  the  world's  end.  I  would 
have  helped  him.  I  made  him,  didn't  I,  Polly?  Didn't  I 
create  that  man?  Doesn't  he  owe  everything  to  me? 
And  to  reward  me,  just  when  everything  was  nicely 
arranged,  by  this  lunacy  that  spoilt  everything! ' 


28  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

'Very  few  men  understand  your  devotion  thoroughly.' 

'Oh,  Polly,  don't  laugh  at  me!  I  give  men  up  from  this 
hour.  I  could  have  killed  him  then  and  there.  What 
right  had  this  man — this  Thing  I  had  picked  out  of  his 
filthy  paddy-fields — to  make  love  to  me?' 

'He  did  that,  did  he?' 

'He  did.  I  don't  remember  half  he  said,  I  was  so 
angry.  Oh,  but  such  a  funny  thing  happened!  I  can't 
help  laughing  at  it  now,  though  I  felt  nearly  ready  to  cry 
with  rage.  He  raved  and  I  stormed — I'm  afraid  we  must 
have  made  an  awful  noise  in  our  kalajuggah.  Protect  my 
character,  dear,  if  it's  all  over  Simla  by  to-morrow — and 
then  he  bobbed  forward  in  the  middle  of  this  insanity — I 
firmly  believe  the  man's  demented — and  kissed  me! ' 

'Morals  above  reproach,'  purred  Mrs.  Mallowe. 

'  So  they  were — so  they  are !  It  was  the  most  absurd 
kiss.  I  don't  believe  he'd  ever  kissed  a  woman  in  his  life 
before.  I  threw  my  head  back,  and  it  was  a  sort  of  slidy, 
pecking  dab,  just  on  the  end  of  the  chin — here.'  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  tapped  her  masculine  little  chin  with  her  fan. 
'Then,  of  course,  I  was  furiously  angry,  and  told  him  that 
he  was  no  gentleman,  and  I  was  sorry  I'd  ever  met  him, 
and  so  on.  He  was  crushed  so  easily  that  I  couldn't  be 
very  angry.  Then  I  came  away  straight  to  you.' 

'Was  this  before  or  after  supper? ' 

'Oh!  before — oceans  before.  Isn't  it  perfectly  dis- 
gusting?' 

'Let  me  think.  I  withold  judgment  till  to-morrow. 
Morning  brings  counsel.' 

But  morning  brought  only  a  servant  with  a  dainty 
bouquet  of  Annandale  roses  for  Mrs.  Hauksbee  to  wear  at 
the  dance  at  Viceregal  Lodge  that  night. 

'He  doesn't  seem  to  be  very  penitent,'  said  Mrs. 
Mallowe.  '  What's  the  billet-doux  in  the  centre? ' 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE  29 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  opened  the  neatly-folded  note, — an- 
other accomplishment  that  she  had  taught  Otis, — read  it, 
and  groaned  tragically. 

'  Last  wreck  of  a  feeble  intellect !  Poetry !  Is  it  his  own, 
do  you  think?  Oh,  that  I  ever  built  my  hopes  on  such  a 
maudlin  idiot!' 

'No.  It's  a  quotation  from  Mrs.  Browning,  and,  in 
view  of  the  facts  of  the  case,  as  Jack  says,  uncommonly 
well  chosen.  Listen — 

Sweet  thou  hast  trod  on  a  heart, 

Pass!    There's  a  world  full  of  men; 
And  women  as  fair  as  thou  art,  ,, 

Must  do  such  things  now  and  then. 

Thou  only  hast  stepped  unaware — 

Malice  not  one  can  impute; 
And  why  should  a  heart  have  been  there, 

In  the  way  of  a  fair  woman's  foot? ' 

'I  didn't— I  didn't— I  didn't!'  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
angrily,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears; '  there  was  no  malice  at 
all.  Oh,  it's  too  vexatious ! ' 

'You've  misunderstood  the  compliment,'  said  Mrs. 
Mallowe.  'He  clears  you  completely  and — ahem — I 
should  think  by  this,  that  he  has  cleared  completely  too. 
My  experience  of  men  is  that  when  they  begin  to  quote 
poetry,  they  are  going  to  flit.  Like  swans  singing  before 
they  die,  you  know.' 

'Polly,  you  take  my  sorrows  in  a  most  unfeeling  way.' 

'Do  I?  Is  it  so  terrible?  If  he's  hurt  your  vanity,  I 
should  say  you've  done  a  certain  amount  of  damage  to  his 
heart.' 

'  Oh,  you  never  can  tell  about  a  man ! '  said  Mrs.  Hauks- 


AT THE  PIT'S  MOUTH 

Men  say  it  was  a  stolen  tide — 

The  Lord  that  sent  it  he  knows  aH, 
But  in  mine  ear  will  aye  abide 

The  message  that  the  bells  let  fall, 
And  awesome  bells  they  were  to  me, 
That  in  the  dark  rang,  'Enderby.' 

Jean  Ingelow. 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  Man  and  his  Wife  and 
a  Tertium  Quid. 

All  three  were  unwise,  but  the  Wife  was  the  un- 
wisest.  The  Man  should  have  looked  after  his  Wife, 
who  should  have  avoided  the  Tertium  Quid,  who, 
again,  should  have  married  a  wife  of  his  own,  after 
clean  and  open  flirtations,  to  which  nobody  can  possi- 
bly object,  round  Jakko  or  Observatory  Hill.  When 
you  see  a  young  man  with  his  pony  in  a  white  lather, 
and  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head  flying  down-hill 
at  fifteen  miles  an  hour  to  meet  a  girl  who  will  be  prop- 
erly surprised  to  meet  him,  you  naturally  approve  of 
that  young  man,  and  wish  him  Staff  appointments,  and 
take  an  interest  in  his  welfare,  and,  as  the  proper  time 
comes,  give  them  sugar-tongs  or  side-saddles  according  to 
your  means  and  generosity. 

The  Tertium  Quid  flew  down-hill  on  horseback,  but 
it  was  to  meet  the  Man's  Wife;  and  when  he  flew  up- 
hill it  was  for  the  same  end.  The  Man  was  in  the 
Plains,  earning  money  for  his  Wife  to  spend  on  dresses 
and  four-hundred-rupee  bracelets,  and  inexpensive  lux- 

30 


AT  THE  PIT'S  MOUTH  31 

dries  of  that  kind.  He  worked  very  hard,  and  sent 
her  a  letter  or  a  post-card  daily.  She  also  wrote  to 
him  daily,  and  said  that  she  was  longing  for  him  to 
come  up  to  Simla.  The  Tertium  Quid  used  to  lean 
over  her  shoulder  and  laugh  as  she  wrote  the  notes. 
Then  the  two  would  ride  to  the  Post-office  together. 

Now,  Simla  is  a  strange  place  and  its  customs  are 
peculiar;  nor  is  any  man  who  has  not  spent  at  least 
ten  seasons  there  qualified  to  pass  judgment  on  circum- 
stantial evidence,  which  is  the  most  untrustworthy  in 
the  Courts.  For  these  reasons,  and  for  others  which 
need  not  appear,  I  decline  to  state  positively  whether 
there  was  anything  irretrievably  wrong  in  the  rela- 
tions between  the  Man's  Wife  and  the  Tertium  Quid. 
If  there  was,  and  hereon  you  must  form  your  own  opin- 
ion, it  was  the  Man's  Wife's  fault.  She  was  kittenish  in 
her  manners,  wearing  generally  an  air  of  soft  and  fluffy 
innocence.  But  she  was  deadlily  learned  and  evil- 
instructed  ;  and,  now  and  again,  when  the  mask  dropped, 
men  saw  this,  shuddered  and — almost  drew  back.  Men 
are  occasionally  particular,  and  the  least  particular  men 
are  always  the  most  exacting. 

Simla  is  eccentric  in  its  fashion  of  treating  friend- 
ships. Certain  attachments  which  have  set  and  crys- 
tallised through  half  a  dozen  seasons  acquire  almost 
the  sanctity  of  the  marriage  bond,  and  are  revered  as 
such.  Again,  .certain  attachments  equally  old,  and, 
to  all  appearance,  equally  venerable,  never  seem  to  win 
any  recognised  official  status;  while  a  chance-sprung 
acquaintance,  not  two  months  born,  steps  into  the  place 
which  by  right  belongs  to  the  senior.  There  is  no  law 
reducible  to  print  which  regulates  these  affairs. 

Some  people  have  a  gift  which  secures  them  infinite 
toleration,  and  others  have  not.  The  Man's  Wife  had 


**  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

not.  If  she  looked  over  the  garden  wall,  for  instance, 
women  taxed  her  with  stealing  then*  husbands.  She 
complained  pathetically  that  she  was  not  allowed  to  choose 
her  own  friends.  When  she  put  up  her  big  white  muff  to 
her  lips,  and  gazed  over  it  and  under  her  eyebrows  at 
you  as  she  said  this  thing,  you  felt  that  she  had  been  in- 
famously misjudged,  and  that  all  the  other  women's  in- 
stincts were  all  wrong;  which  was  absurd.  She  was  not 
allowed  to  own  the  Tertium  Quid  in  peace;  and  was  so 
strangely  constructed  that  she  would  not  have  enjoyed 
peace  had  she  been  so  permitted.  She  preferred  some 
semblance  of  intrigue  to  cloak  even  her  most  common- 
place actions. 

After  two  months  of  riding,  first  round  Jakko,  then 
Elysium,  then  Summer  Hill,  then  Observatory  Hill, 
then  under  Jutogh,  and  lastly  up  and  down  the  Cart 
Road  as  far  as  the  Tara  Devi  gap  in  the  dusk,  she  said 
to  the  Tertium  Quid,  'Frank,  people  say  we  are  too  much 
together,  and  people  are  so  horrid.' 

The  Tertium  Quid  pulled  his  moustache,  and  replied 
that  horrid  people  were  unworthy  of  the  consideration 
of  nice  people. 

'But  they  have  done  more  than  talk — they  have 
written — written  to  my  hubby — I'm  sure  of  it,'  said 
the  Man's  Wife,  and  she  pulled  a  letter  from  her  husband 
out  of  her  saddle-pocket  and  gave  it  to  the  Tertium 
Quid. 

It  was  an  honest  letter,  written  by  an  honest  man, 
then  stewing  in  the  Plains  on  two  hundred  rupees  a 
month  (for  he  allowed  his  wife  eight  hundred  and  fifty), 
and  in  a  silk  banian  and  cotton  trousers.  It  said 
that,  perhaps,  she.  had  not  thought  of  the  unwisdom  of 
allowing  her  name  to  be  so  generally  coupled  with  the 
Tertium  Quid's;  that  she  was  too  much  of  a  child  to 


AT  THE  PIT'S  MOUTH  33 

understand  the  dangers  of  that  sort  of  thing;  that  he, 
her  husband,  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  interfere 
jealously  with  her  little  amusements  and  interests,  but 
that  it  would  be  better  were  she  to  drop  the  Tertium 
Quid  quietly  and  for  her  husband's  sake.  The  letter 
was  sweetened  with  many  pretty  little  pet  names,  and 
it  amused  the  Tertium  Quid  considerably.  He  and  She 
laughed  over  it,  so  that  you,  fifty  yards  away,  could  see 
their  shoulders  shaking  while  the  horses  slouched  along 
side  by  side.  « 

Their  conversation  was  not  worth  reporting.  The 
upshot  of  it  was  that,  next  day,  no  one  saw  the  Man's 
Wife  and  the  Tertium  Quid  together.  They  had  both 
gone  down  to  the  Cemetery,  which,  as  a  rule,  is  only 
visited  officially  by  the  inhabitants  of  Simla. 

A  Simla  funeral  with  the  clergyman  riding,  the 
mourners  riding,  and  the  coffin  creaking  as  it  swings 
between  the  bearers,  is  one  of  the  most  depressing  things 
on  this  earth,  particularly  when  the  procession  passes 
under  the  wet,  dank  dip  beneath  the  Rockcliffe  Hotel, 
where  the  sun  is  shut  out,  and  all  the  hill  streams  are 
wailing  and  weeping  together  as  they  go  down  the  valleys. 

Occasionally,  folk  tend  the  graves,  but  we  in  India 
shift  and  are  transferred  so  often  that,  at  the  end  of  the 
second  year,  the  Dead  have  no  friends — only  acquaint- 
ances who  are  far  too  busy  amusing  themselves  up  the 
hill  to  attend  to  old  partners.  The  idea  of  using  a  Ceme- 
tery as  a  rendezvous  is  distinctly  a  feminine  one.  A 
man  would  have  said  simply,  'Let  people  talk.  We'll 
go  down  the  Mall.'  A  woman  is  made  differently,  es- 
pecially if  she  be  such  a  woman  as  the  Man's  Wife.  She 
and  the  Tertium  Quid  enjoyed  each  other's  society 
among  the  graves  of  men  and  women  whom  they  had 
known  and  danced  with  aforetime. 


34  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

They  used  to  take  a  big  horse-blanket  and  sit  on  the 
grass  a  little  to  the  left  of  the  lower  end,  where  there 
is  a  dip  in  the  ground,  and  where  the  occupied  graves 
stop  short  and  the  ready-made  ones  are  not  ready. 
Each  well-regulated  Indian  Cemetery  keeps  half  a 
dozen  graves  permanently  open  for  contingencies  and 
incidental  wear  and  tear.  In  the  Hills  these  are  more 
usually  baby's  size,  because  children  who  come  up 
weakened  and  sick  from  the  Plains  often  succumb  to  the 
effects  of  the  Rains  in  the  Hills  or  get  pneumonia  from 
their  ayahs  taking  them  through  damp  pine-woods  after 
the  sun  has  set.  In  Cantonments,  of  course,  the  man's 
size  is  more  in  request;  these  arrangements  varying  with 
the  climate  and  population. 

One  day  when  the  Man's  Wife  and  the  Tertium  Quid 
had  just  arrived  in  the  Cemetery,  they  saw  some  coolies 
breaking  ground.  They  had  marked  out  a  full-size 
grave,  and  the  Tertium  Quid  asked  them  whether  any 
Sahib  was  sick.  They  said  that  they  did  not  know;  but 
it  was  an  order  that  they  should  dig  a  Sahib's  grave. 

'Work  away,'  said  the  Tertium  Quid,  'and  let's  see 
how  it's  done.' 

The  coolies  worked  away,  and  the  Man's  Wife  and 
the  Tertium  Quid  watched  and  talked  for  a  couple  of 
hours  while  the  grave  was  being  deepened.  Then  a 
coolie,  taking  the  earth  in  baskets  as  it  was  thrown  up, 
jumped  over  the  grave. 

'That's  queer,'  said  the  Tertium  Quid.  '  Where's  my 
ulster?' 

'What's  queer?'  said  the  Man's  Wife. 

'I  have  got  a  chill  down  my  back — just  as  if  a  goose 
had  walked  over  my  grave.' 

'Why  do  you  look  at  the  thing,  then?'  said  the  Man'? 
Wife.  'Let  us  go/ 


AT  THE  PIT'S  MOUTH  35 

The  Tertium  Quid  stood  at  the  head  of  the  grave, 
and  stared  without  answering  for  a  space.  Then  he 
said,  dropping  a  pebble  down,  'It  is  nasty — and  cold: 
horribly  cold.  I  don't  think  I  shall  come  to  the  Ceme- 
tery any  more.  I  don't  think  grave-digging  is  cheerful.' 

The  two  talked  and  agreed  that  the  Cemetery  was 
depressing.  They  also  arranged  for  a  ride  next  day 
out  from  the  Cemetery  through  the  Mashobra  Tunnel 
up  to  Fagoo  and  back,  because  all  the  world  was  going 
to  a  garden-party  at  Viceregal  Lodge,  and  all  the  people 
of  Mashobra  would  go  too. 

Coming  up  the  Cemetery  road,  the  Tertium  Quid's 
horse  tried  to  bolt  up-hill,  being  tired  with  standing  so 
long,  and  managed  to  strain  a  back  sinew. 

'I  shall  have  to  take  the  mare  to-morrow,'  said  the 
Tertium  Quid,  'and  she  will  stand  nothing  heavier  than 
a  snaffle.' 

They  made  their  arrangements  to  meet  in  the  Ceme- 
tery, after  allowing  all  the  Mashobra  people  time  to 
pass  into  Simla.  That  night  it  rained  heavily,  and, 
next  day,  when  the  Tertium  Quid  came  to  the  trysting- 
place,  he  saw  that  the  new  grave  had  a  foot  of  water 
in  it,  the  ground  being  a  tough  and  sour  clay. 

1  'Jove!  That  looks  beastly,'  said  the  Tertium  Quid. 
'Fancy  being  boarded  up  and  dropped  into  that  well!' 

They  then  started  off  to  Fagoo,  the  mare  playing 
with  the  snaffle  and  picking  her  way  as  though  she 
were  shod  with  satin,  and  the  sun  shining  divinely. 
The  road  below  Mashobra  to  Fagoo  is  officially  styled 
the  Himalayan-Thibet  Road;  but  in  spite  of  its  name 
it  is  not  much  more  than  six  feet  wide  in  most  places, 
and  the  drop  into  the  valley  below  may  be  anything 
between  one  and  two  thousand  feet. 

'Now  we're  going  to  Thibet,'  said  the  Man's  Wife 


36  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

merrily,  as  the  horses  drew  near  to  Fagoo.     She  was 
riding  on  the  cliff-side. 

'Into  Thibet/  said  the  Tertium  Quid,  'ever  so  far 
from  people  who  say  horrid  things,  and  hubbies  who 
write  stupid  letters.  With  you — to  the  end  of  the 
world!' 

A  coolie  carrying  a  log  of  wood  came  round  a  corner, 
and  the  mare  went  wide  to  avoid  him — forefeet  in  and 
haunches  out,  as  a  sensible  mare  should  go. 

'To  the  world's  end,'  said  the  Man's  Wife,  and  looked 
unspeakable  things  over  her  near  shoulder  at  the  Tertium 
Quid. 

He  was  smiling,  but,  while  she  looked,  the  smile 
froze  stiff  as  it  were  on  his  face,  and  changed  to  a  ner- 
vous grin — the  sort  of  grin  men  wear  when  they  are 
not  quite  easy  in  their  saddles.  The  mare  seemed  to 
be  sinking  by  the  stern,  and  her  nostrils  cracked  while 
she  was  trying  to  realise  what  was  happening.  The 
rain  of  the  night  before  had  rotted  the  drop-side  of  the 
Himalayan-Thibet  Road,  and  it  was  giving  way  under 
her.  'What  are  you  doing?'  said  the  Man's  Wife. 
The  Tertium  Quid  gave  no  answer.  He  grinned  ner- 
vously and  set  his  spurs  into  the  mare,  who  rapped 
with  her  forefeet  on  the  road,  and  the  struggle  began. 
The  Man's  Wife  screamed,  'Oh,  Frank,  get  off!' 

But  the  Tertium  Quid  was  glued  to  the  saddle — his 
face  blue  and  white — and  he  looked  into  the  Man's 
Wife's  eyes.  Then  the  Man's  Wife  clutched  at  the 
mare's  head  and  caught  her  by  the  nose  instead  of  the 
bridle.  The  brute  threw  up  her  head  and  went  down 
with  a  scream,  the  Tertium  Quid  upon  her,  and  the  ner- 
vous grin  still  set  on  his  face. 

The  Man's  Wife  heard  the  tinkle-tinkle  of  little 
stones  and  loose  earth  falling  off  the  roadway,  and  the 


AT  THE  PIT'S  MOUTH  37 

sliding  roar  of  the  man  and  horse  going  down.  Then 
everything  was  quiet,  and  she  called  on  Frank  to  leave 
his  mare  and  walk  up.  But  Frank  did  not  answer. 
He  was  underneath  the  mare,  nine  hundred  feet  below, 
spoiling  a  patch  of  Indian  corn. 

As  the  revellers  came  back  from  Viceregal  Lodge  in  the 
mists  of  the  evening,  they  met  a  temporarily  insane  wo- 
man, on  a  temporarily  mad  horse,  swinging  round  the 
corners,  with  her  eyes  and  her  mouth  open,  and  her  head 
like  the  head  of  a  Medusa.  She  was  stopped  by  a  man  at 
the  risk  of  his  life,  and  taken  out  of  the  saddle,  a  limp 
heap,  and  put  on  the  bank  to  explain  herself.  This 
wasted  twenty  minutes,  and  then  she  was  sent  home  in  a 
lady's  'rickshaw,  still  with  her  mouth  open  and  her  hands 
picking  at  her  riding-gloves. 

She  was  in  bed  through  the  following  three  days, 
which  were  rainy;  so  she  missed  attending  the  funeral  of 
the  Tertium  Quid,  who  was  lowered  into  eighteen  inches  of 
water,  instead  of  the  twelve  to  which  he  had  first  objected. 


A  WAYSIDE  COMEDY 

Because  to  every  purpose  there  is  time  and  judgment,  therefore  the 
misery  of  man  is  great  upon  him. — Eccles.  viii.  6. 

FATE  and  the  Government  of  India  have  turned  the 
Station  of  Kashima  into  a  prison;  and,  because  there  is 
no  help  for  the  poor  souls  who  are  now  lying  there  in  tor- 
ment, I  write  this  story,  praying  that  the  Government  of 
India  may  be  moved  to  scatter  the  European  population 
to  the  four  winds. 

Kashima  is  bounded  on  all  sides  by  the  rock-tipped 
circle  of  the  Dosehri  hills.  In  Spring,  it  is  ablaze  with 
roses;  in  Summer,  the  roses  die  and  the  hot  winds  blow 
from  the  hills;  in  Autumn,  the  white  mists  from  ihejhils 
cover  the  place  as  with  water,  and  in  Winter  the  frosts  nip 
everything  young  and  tender  to  earth-level.  There  is 
but  one  view  in  Kashima — a  stretch  of  perfectly  flat 
pasture  and  plough-land,  running  up  to  the  gray-blue 
scrub  of  the  Dosehri  hills. 

Thqre  are  no  amusements,  except  snipe  and  tiger-shoot- 
ing; but  the  tigers  have  been  long  since  hunted  from  their 
lairs  in  the  rock-caves,  and  the  snipe  only  come  once  a  year. 
Narkarra — one  hundred  and  forty-three  miles  by  road- 
is  the  nearest  station  to  Kashima.  But  Kashima  never 
goes  to  Narkarra,  where  there  are  at  least  twelve  English 
people.  It  stays  within  the  circle  of  the  Dosehri  hills. 

All  Kashima  acquits  Mrs.  Vansuythen  of  any  intention 
to  do  harm;  but  all  Kashima  knows  that  she,  and  she 
alone,  brought  about  their  pain. 

38 


A  WAYSIDE  COMEDY  39 

Boulte,  the  Engineer,  Mrs.  Boulte,  and  Captain  Kurrsll 
know  this.  They  are  the  English  population  of  Kashima:,, 
if  we  except  Major  Vansuythen,  who  is  of  no  importance 
whatever,  and  Mrs.  Vansuythen,  who  is  the  most  impor- 
tant of  all. 

You  must  remember,  though  you  will  not  understand, 
that  all  laws  weaken  in  a  small  and  hidden  community 
where  there  is  no  public  opinion.  When  a  man  is  ab- 
solutely alone  in  a  Station  he  runs  a  certain  risk  of 
falling  into  evil  ways.  This  risk  is  multiplied  by  every 
addition  to  the  population  up  to  twelve — the  Jury- 
number.  After  that,  fear  and  consequent  restraint 
begin,  and  human  action  becomes  less  grotesquely 
jerky. 

There  was  deep  peace  in  Kashima  till  Mrs.  Vansuythen 
arrived.  She  was  a  charming  woman,  every  one  said  so 
everywhere ;  and  she  charmed  every  one.  In  spite  of  this, 
or,  perhaps,  because  of  this,  since  Fate  is  so  perverse,  she 
cared  only  for  one  man,  and  he  was  Major  Vansuythen. 
Had  she  been  plain  or  stupid,  this  matter  would  have  been 
intelligible  to  Kashima.  But  she  was  a  fair  woman,  with 
very  still  gray  eyes,  the  colour  of  a  lake  just  before  the 
light  of  the  sun  touches  it.  No  man  who  had  seen  those 
eyes  could,  later  on,  explain  what  fashion  of  woman  she 
was  to  look  upon.  The  eyes  dazzled  him.  Her  own  sex 
said  that  she  was  'not  bad  looking,  but  spoilt  by  pretend- 
ing to  be  so  grave.'  And  y^et  her  gravity  was  natural.  It 
was  not  her  habit  to  smile.  She  merely  went  through 
life,  looking  at  those  who  passed;  and  the  women  objected 
while  the  men  fell  down  and  worshipped. 

She  knows  and  is  deeply  sorry  for  the  evil  she  has  done 
to  Kashima;  but  Major  Vansuythen  cannot  understand 
why  Mrs.  Boulte  does  not  drop  in  to  afternoon  tea  at 
least  three  times  a  week.  'When  there  are  only  two 


40  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

women  in  one  Station,  they  ought  to  see  a  great  deal  of 
each  other,'  says  Major  Vansuythen. 

Long  and  long  before  ever  Mrs.  Vansuythen  came  out 
of  those  far-away  places  where  there  is  society  and  amuse- 
ment, Kurrell  had  discovered  that  Mrs.  Boulte  was  the 
one  woman  in  the  world  for  him  and — you  dare  not  blame 
them.  Kashima  was  as  out  of  the  world  as  Heaven  or  the 
Other  Place,  and  the  Dosehri  hills  kept  their  secret  well. 
Boulte  had  no  concern  in  the  matter.  He  was  in  camp 
for  a  fortnight  at  a  time.  He  was  a  hard,  heavy  man,  and 
neither  Mrs.  Boulte  nor  Kurrell  pitied  him.  They  had  all 
Kashima  and  each  other  for  their  very,  very  own;  and 
Kashima  was  the  Garden  of  Eden  in  those  days.  When 
Boulte  returned  from  his  wanderings  he  would  slap  Kur- 
rell between  the  shoulders  and  call  him  'old  fellow/  and 
the  three  would  dine  together.  Kashima  was  happy  then 
when  the  judgment  of  God  seemed  almost  as  distant  as 
Narkarra  or  the  railway  that  ran  down  to  the  sea.  But 
the  Government  sent  Major  Vansuythen  to  Kashima,  and 
with  him  came  his  wife. 

The  etiquette  of  Kashima  is  much  the  same  as  that  of  a 
desert  island.  When  a  stranger  is  cast  away  there,  all 
hands  go  down  to  the  shore  to  make  him  welcome. 
Kashima  assembled  at  the  masonry  platform  close  to  the 
Narkarra  Road,  and  spread  tea  for  the  Vansuythens. 
That  ceremony  was  reckoned  a  formal  call,  and  made 
them  free  of  the  Station,  its  rights  and  privileges.  When 
the  Vansuythens  were  settled  down,  they  gave  a  tiny 
house-warming  to  all  Kashima;  and  that  made  Kashima 
free  of  their  house,  according  to  the  immemorial  usage  of 
the  Station. 

Then  the  Rains  came,  when  no  one  could  go  into 
camp,  and  the  Narkarra  Road  was  washed  away  by  the 
Kasun  River,  and  in  the  cup-like  pastures  of  Kashima  the 


A  WAYSIDE  COMEDY  41 

cattle  waded  knee-deep.  The  clouds  dropped  down  from 
the  Dosehri  hills  and  covered  everything. 

At  the  end  of  the  Rains,  Boulte's  manner  towards  his 
wife  changed  and  became  demonstratively  affectionate. 
They  had  been  married  ^twelve  years,  and  the  change 
startled  Mrs.  Boulte,  who  hated  her  husband  with  the 
hate  of  a  woman  who  has  met  with  nothing  but  kindness 
from  her  mate,  and,  in  the  teeth  of  this  kindness,  has  done 
him  a  great  wrong.  Moreover,  she  had  her  own  trouble  to 
fight  with — her  watch  to  keep  over  her  own  property, 
Kurrell.  For  two  months  the  Rains  had  hidden  the 
Dosehri  hills  and  many  other  things  besides;  but,  when 
they  lifted,  they  showed  Mrs.  Boulte  that  her  man 
among  men,  her  Ted — for  she  called  him  Ted  in  the  old 
days  when  Boulte  was  out  of  earshot — was  slipping  the 
links  of  the  allegiance. 

'The  Vansuythen  Woman  has  taken  him,'  Mrs.  Boulte 
said  to  herself;  and  when  Boulte  was  away,  wept  over  her 
belief,  in  the  face  of  the  over-vehement  blandishments  of 
Ted.  Sorrow  in  Kashima  is  as  fortunate  as  Love,  be- 
cause there  is  nothing  to  weaken  it  save  the  flight  of 
Time.  Mrs.  Boulte  had  never  breathed  her  suspicion  to 
Kurrell  because  she  was  not  certain;  and  her  nature  led 
her  to  be  very  certain  before  she  took  steps  in  any  direc- 
tion. That  is  why  she  behaved  as  she  did. 

Boulte  came  into  the  house  one  evening,  and  leaned 
against  the  door-posts  of  the  drawing-room,  chewing  his 
moustache.  Mrs.  Boulte  was  putting  some  flowers  into  a 
vase.  There  is  a  pretence  of  civilisation  even  in  Kashima. 

'Little  woman/  said  Boulte  quietly,  'do  you  care  for 
me?' 

' Immensely,'  said  she,  with  a  laugh.     '  Can  you  ask  it? ' 

'But  I'm  serious/  said  Boulte.  Do  you  care  for 
me?' 


42  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Mrs.  Boulte  dropped  the  flowers,  and  turned  round 
quickly.  '  Do  you  want  an  honest  answer? ' 

1  Ye-es,  I've  asked  for  it.' 

Mrs.  Boulte  spoke  in  a  low,  even  voice  for  five  minutes, 
very  distinctly,  that  there  might  be  no  misunderstanding 
her  meaning.  When  Samson  broke  the  pillars  of  Gaza,  he 
did  a  little  thing,  and  one  not  to  be  compared  to  the 
deliberate  pulling  down  of  a  woman's  homestead  about 
her  own  ears.  There  was  no  wise  female  friend  to  advise 
Mrs.  Boulte,  the  singularly  cautious  wife,  to  hold  her 
hand.  She  struck  at  Boulte's  heart,  because  her  own 
was  sick  with  suspicion  of  Kurrell,  and  worn  out  with  the 
long  strain  of  watching  alone  through  the  Rains.  There 
was  no  plan  or  purpose  in  her  speaking.  The  sentences 
made  themselves;  and  Boulte  listened,  leaning  against  the 
door-post  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  When  all  was 
over,  and  Mrs.  Boulte  began  to  breathe  through  her  nose 
before  breaking  out  into  tears,  he  laughed  and  stared 
straight  in  front  of  him  at  the  Dosehri  hills. 

'  Is  that  all? '  he  said.  '  Thanks,  I  only  wanted  to  know, 
you  know.' 

( What  are  you  going  to  do?'  said  the  woman,  between 
her  sobs. 

'Do!  Nothing.  What  should  I  do?  Kill  Kurrell  or 
send  you  Home,  or  apply  for  leave  to  get  a  divorce?  It's 
two  days'  ddk  into  Narkarra.'  He  laughed  again  and  went 
on:  'I'll  tell  you  what  you  can  do.  You  can  ask  Kurrell 
to  dinner  to-morrow — no,  on  Thursday,  that  will  allow 
you  time  to  pack — and  you  can  bolt  with  him.  I  give 
you  my  word  I  won't  follow.' 

He  took  up  his  helmet  and  went  out  of  the  room,  and 
Mrs.  Boulte  sat  till  the  moonlight  streaked  the  floor, 
thinking  and  thinking  and  thinking.  She  had  done  her 
best  upon  the  spur  of  the  moment  to  pull  the  house  down; 


A  WAYSIDE  COMEDY  v  43 

but  it  would  not  fall.  Moreover,  she  could  not  under- 
stand her  husband,  and  she  was  afraid.  Then  the  folly  of 
her  useless  truthfulness  struck  her,  and  she  was  ashamed 
to  write  to  Kurrell,  saying:  'I  have  gone  mad  and  told 
everything.  My  husband  says  that  I  am  free  to  elope 
with  you.  Get  a  dak  for  Thursday,  and  we  will  fly  after 
dinner.'  There  was  a  cold-bloodedness  about  that  proce- 
dure which  did  not  appeal  to  her.  So  she  sat  still  hi  her 
own  house  and  thought. 

At  dinner-time  Boulte  came  back  from  his  walk,  white 
and  worn  and  haggard,  and  the  woman  was  touched  at  his 
distress.  As  the  evening  wore  on,  she  muttered  some  ex- 
pression of  sorrow,  something  approaching  to  contrition. 
Boulte  came  out  of  a  brown  study  and  said, '  Oh,  that !  I 
wasn't  thinking  about  that.  By  the  way,  what  does 
Kurrell  say  to  the  elopement? ' 

'I  haven't  seen  him,'  said  Mrs.  Boulte.  '  Good -God!  is 
that  all?' 

But  Boulte  was  not  listening,  and  her  sentence  ended  in 
a  gulp. 

The  next  day  brought  no  comfort  to  Mrs.  Boulte,  for 
Kurrell  did  not  appear,  and  the  new  lif e  that  she,  in  the 
five  minutes'  madness  of  the  previous  evening,  had  hoped 
to  build  out  of  the  ruins  of  the  old,  seemed  to  be  no  nearer. 

Boulte  ate  his  breakfast,  advised  her  to  see  her  Arab 
pony  fed  in  the  veranda,  and  went  out.  The  morning 
wore  through,  and  at  midday  the  tension  became  unen- 
durable. Mrs.  Boulte  could  not  cry.  She  had  finished 
her  crying  in  the  night,  and  now  she  did  not  want  to  be 
left  alone.  Perhaps  the  Vansuythen  Woman  would  talk 
to  her;  and,  since  talking  opens  the  heart,  perhaps  there 
might  be  some  comfort  to  be  found  in  her  company.  She 
was  the  only  other  woman  in  the  Station. 

In  Kashima  there  are  no  regular  calling-hours.    Every 


44  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

one  can  drop  in  upon  every  one  else  at  pleasure.  Mrs. 
Boulte  put  on  a  big  terai  hat,  and  walked  across  to  the 
Vansuythens'  house  to  borrow  last  week's  Queen.  The 
two  compounds  touched,  and  instead  of  going  up  the 
drive,  she  crossed  through  the  gap  in  the  cactus-hedge, 
entering  the  house  from  the  back.  As  she  passed  through 
the  dining-room,  she  heard,  behind  the  purdah  that 
cloaked  the  drawing-room  door,  her  husband's  voice, 
saying — 

'But  on  my  Honour!  On  my  Soul  and  Honour, 
I  tell  you  she  doesn't  care  for  me.  She  told  me  so 
last  night.  I  would  have  told  you  then  if  Vansuy- 
then  hadn't  been  with  you.  If  it  is  for  her  sake  that 
you'll  have  nothing  to  say  to  me,  you  can  make  your 
mind  easy.  It's  Kurrell — 

'What?'  said  Mrs.  Vansuythen,  with  an  hysterical 
little  laugh.  'Kurrell!  Oh,  it  can't  be!  You  two 
must  have  made  some  horrible  mistake.  Perhaps  you 
—you  lost  your  temper,  or  misunderstood,  or  something. 
Things  can't  be  as  wrong  as  you  say.' 

Mrs.  Vansuythen  had  shifted  her  defence  to  avoid 
the  man's  pleading,  and  was  desperately  trying  to  keep 
him  to  a  side-issue. 

'There  must  be  some  mistake/  she  insisted,  'and  it 
can  be  all  put  right  again.' 

Boulte  laughed  grimly. 

'  It  can't  be  Captain  Kurrell !  He  told  me  that  he  had 
never  taken  the  least — the  least  interest  in  your  wife, 
Mr.  Boulte.  Oh,  do  listen!  He  said  he  had  not.  He 
swore  he  had  not,'  said  Mrs.  Vansuythen. 

The  purdah  rustled,  and  the  speech  was  cut  short 
by  the  entry  of  a  little,  thin  woman,  with  big  rings 
round  her  eyes.  Mrs.  Vansuythen  stood  up  with  a 
gasp. 


A  WAYSIDE  COMEDY  45 

'What  was  that  you  said?'  asked  Mrs.  Boulte.  'Never 
mind  that  man.  What  did  Ted  say  to  you?  What  did 
he  say  to  you?  What  did  he  say  to  you? ' 

Mrs.  Vansuythen  sat  down  helplessly  on  the  sofa, 
overborne  by  the  trouble  of  her  questioner. 

'He  said — I  can't  remember  exactly  what  he  said — 

but  I  understood  him  to  say — that  is But,  really, 

Mrs.  Boulte,  isn't  it  rather  a  strange  question?' 

'  Will  you  tell  me  what  he  said? '  repeated  Mrs.  Boulte. 
Even  a  tiger  will  fly  before  a  bear  robbed  of  her  whelps, 
and  Mrs.  Vansuythen  was  only  an  ordinarily  good  wo- 
man. She  began  in  a  sort  of  desperation:  'Well,  he 
said  that  he  never  cared  for  you  at  all,  and,  of  course, 
there  was  not  the  least  reason  why  he  should  have,  and 
— and — that  was  all.' 

'You  said  he  swore  he  had  not  cared  for  me.  Was 
that  true?' 

'Yes,'  said  Mrs.  Vansuythen  very  softly. 

Mrs.  Boulte  wavered  for  an  instant  where  she  stood, 
and  then  fell  forward  fainting. 

'What  did  I  tell  you?'  said  Boulte,  as  though  the 
conversation  had  been  unbroken.  'You  can  see  for 
yourself.  She  cares  for  him.'  The  light  began  to 
break  into  his  dull  mind,  and  he  went  on — 'And  he — 
what  was  he  saying  to  you? ' 

But  Mrs.  Vansuythen,  with  no  heart  for  explana- 
tions or  impassioned  protestations,  was  kneeling  over 
Mrs.  Boulte. 

'Oh,  you  brute!'  she  cried.  'Are  all  men  like  this? 
Help  me  to  get  her  into  my  room — and  her  face  is  cut 
against  the  table.  Oh,  will  you  be  quiet,  and  help  me 
to  carry  her?  I  hate  you,  and  I  hate  Captain  Kurrell. 
Lift  her  up  carefully  and  now — go !  Go  away !' 

Boulte  carried  his  wife  into  Mrs.  Vansuythen's  bed- 


4fi  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

room  and  departed  before  the  storm  of  that  lady's 
wrath  and  disgust,  impenitent  and  burning  with  jeal- 
ousy.  Kurrell  had  been  making  love  to  Mrs.  Vansuy- 
then — would  do  Vansuythen  as  great  a  wrong  as  he  had 
done  Boulte,  who  caught  himself  considering  whether 
Mrs.  Vansuythen  would  faint  if  she  discovered  that  the 
man  she  loved  had  foresworn  her. 

In  the  middle  of  these  meditations,  Kurrell  came 
cantering  along  the  road  and  pulled  up  with  a  cheery, 
'  Good-mornin'.  'Been  mashing  Mrs.  Vansuythen  as 
usual,  eh?  Bad  thing  for  a  sober,  married  man,  that. 
What  will  Mrs.  Boulte  say? ' 

Boulte  raised  his  head  and  said  slowly,  'Oh,  you 
liar!'  KurrelPs  face  changed.  'What's  that?' he  asked 
quickly. 

'Nothing  much,'  said  Boulte.  'Has  my  wife  told 
you  that  you  two  are  free  to  go  off  whenever  you  please? 
She  has  been  good  enough  to  explain  the  situation  to 
me.  You've  been  a  true  friend  to  me,  Kurrell — old 
man — haven't  you? ' 

Kurrell  groaned,  and  tried  to  frame  some  sort  of 
idiotic  sentence  about  being  willing  to  give  'satisfac- 
tion.' But  his  interest  in  the  woman  was  dead,  had 
died  out  in  the  Rains,  and,  mentally,  he  was  abusing 
her  for  her  amazing  indiscretion.  It  would  have  been 
so  easy  to  have  broken  off  the  thing  gently  and  by  de- 
grees, and  now  he  was  saddled  with —  Boulte's  voice 
recalled  him. 

'I  don't  think  I  should  get  any  satisfaction  from  kill- 
ing you,  and  I'm  pretty  sure  you'd  get  none  from  kill- 
ing me.' 

Then  in  a  querulous  tone,  ludicrously  disproportioned 
to  his  wrongs,  Boulte  added — 

"Seems  rather  a  pity  that  you  haven't  the  decency 


A  WAYSIDE  COMEDY  49 

to  keep  to  the  woman,  now  you've  got  her.     You've 
been  a  true  friend  to  her  too,  haven't  you?' 

Kurrell  stared  long  and  gravely.  The  situation  was 
getting  beyond  him. 

'What  do  you  mean?'  he  said. 

Boulte  answered,  more  to  himself  than  the  questioner: 
'My  wife  came  over  to  Mrs.  Vansuythen's  just  now; 
and  it  seems  you'd  been  telling  Mrs.  Vansuythen  that 
you'd  never  cared  for  Emma.  I  suppose  you  lied,  as 
usual.  What  had  Mrs.  Vansuythen  to  do  with  you,  or 
you  with  her?  Try  to  speak  the  truth  for  once  in  a  way.' 

Kurrell  took  the  double  insult  without  wincing,  and 
replied  by  another  question:  'Go  on.  What  hap- 
pened?' 

'Emma  fainted,'  said  Boulte  simply.  'But,  look  here, 
what  had  you  been  saying  to  Mrs.  Vansuythen? ' 

Kurrell  laughed.  Mrs.  Boulte  had,  with  unbridled 
tongue,  made  havoc  of  his  plans;  and  he  could  at  least 
retaliate  by  hurting  the  man  in  whose  eyes  he  was  hu- 
miliated and  shown  dishonourable. 

'Said  to  her?  What  does  a  man  tell  a  lie  like  that 
for?  I  suppose  I  said  pretty  much  what  you've  said, 
unless  I'm  a  good  deal  mistaken.' 

'I  spoke  the  truth,'  said  Boulte,  again  more  to  him- 
self than  Kurrell.  'Emma  told  me  she  hated  me.  She 
has  no  right  in  me.' 

"'No!  I  suppose  not.  You're  only  her  husband, 
y*know.  And  what  did  Mrs.  Vansuythen  say  after  you 
had  laid  your  disengaged  heart  at  her  feet? ' 

Kurrell  felt  almost  virtuous  as  he  put  the  question. 

'I  don't  think  that  matters,'  Boulte  replied;  'and  it 
doesn't  concern  you.' 

'But  it  does!  I  tell  you  it  does' — began  Kurrell 
shamelessly. 


48  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

The  sentence  was  cut  by  a  roar  of  laughter  from 
Boulte's  lips.  Kurrell  was  silent  for  an  instant,  and 
then  he,  too,  laughed — laughed  long  and  loudly,  rock- 
ing hi  his  saddle.  It  was  an  unpleasant  sound — the 
mirthless  mirth  of  these  men  on  the  long,  white  line 
of  the  Narkarra  Road.  There  were  no  strangers  in 
Kashima,  or  they  might  have  thought  that  captivity 
within  the  Dosehri  hills  had  driven  half  the  European 
population  mad.  The  laughter  ended  abruptly,  and  Kur- 
rell was  the  first  to  speak. 

'Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do?' 

Boulte  looked  up  the  road,  and  at  the  hills.  'Noth- 
ing,' said  he  quietly;  'what's  the  use?  It's  too  ghastly 
for  anything.  We  must  let  the  old  life  go  on.  I  can 
only  call  you  a  hound  and  a  liar,  and  I  can't  go  on  calling 
you  names  for  ever.  Besides  which,  I  don't  feel  that  I'm 
much  better.  We  can't  get  out  of  this  place.  What  is 
there  to  do?' 

Kurrell  looked  round  the  rat-pit  of  Kashima  and  Miade 
no  reply.  The  injured  husband  took  up  the  wondrous  tale. 

'Ride  on,  and  speak  to  Emma  if  you  want  to.  God 
knows  7  don't  care  what  you  do.' 

He  walked  forward,  and  left  Kurrell  gazing  blankly 
after  him.  Kurrell  did  not  ride  on  either  to  see  Mrs. 
Boulte  or  Mrs.  Vansuythen.  He  sat  in  his  saddle  and 
thought,  while  his  pony  grazed  by  the  roadside. 

The  whir  of  approaching  wheels  roused  him.  Mrs. 
Vansuythen  was  driving  home  Mrs.  Boulte,  white  and 
wan,  with  a  cut  on  her  forehead. 

'Stop,  please,'  said  Mrs.  Boulte,  'I  want  to  speak  to 
Ted.' 

Mrs.  Vansuythen  obeyed,  but  as  Mrs.  Boulte  leaned 
forward,  putting  her  hand  upon  the  splash-board  of  the 
dog-cart,  Kurrell  spoke. 


A  WAYSIDE  COMEDY  4$ 

'I've  seen  your  husband,  Mrs.  Boulte.' 

There  was  no  necessity  for  any  further  explanation. 
The  man's  eyes  were  fixed,  not  upon  Mrs.  Boulte,  but 
her  companion.  Mrs.  Boulte  saw  the  look. 

'Speak  to  him!'  she  pleaded,  turning  to  the  woman 
at  her  side.  'Oh,  speak  to  him!  Tell  him  what  you 
told  me  just  now.  Tell  him  you  hate  him.  Tell  him 
you  hate  him!' 

She  bent  forward  and  wept  bitterly,  while  the 
sais,  impassive,  went  forward  to  hold  the  horse. 
Mrs.  Vansuythen  turned  scarlet  and  dropped  the 
reins.  She  wished  to  be  no  party  to  such  unholy  explana- 
tions. 

'I've  nothing  to  do  with  it,'  she  began  coldly;  but 
Mrs.  Boulte's  sobs  overcame  her,  and  she  addressed 
herself  to  the  man.  'I  don't  know  what  I  am  to 
say,  Captain  Kurrell.  I  don't  know  what  I  can 
call  you.  I  think  you've — you've  behaved  abomi- 
nably, and  she  has  cut  her  forehead  terribly  against  the 
table.' 

'It  doesn't  hurt.  It  isn't  anything/  said  Mrs.  Boulte 
feebly.  'That  doesn't  matter.  Tell  him  what  you 
told  me.  Say  you  don't  care  for  him.  Oh,  Ted,  won't 
you  believe  her? ' 

'Mrs.  Boulte  has  made  me  understand  that  you  were 
— that  you  were  fond  of  her  once  upon  a  time,'  went  on 
Mrs.  Vansuythen. 

'Well!'  said  Kurrell  brutally.  'It  seems  to  me  that 
Mrs.  Boulte  had  better  be  fond  of  her  own  husband 
first.' 

'Stop!'  said  Mrs.  Vansuythen.  'Hear  me  first.  I 
don't  care — I  don't  want  to  know  anything  about  you 
and  Mrs.  Boulte;  but  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  hate 
you,  that  I  think  you  are  a  cur,  and  that  I'll  never, 


50  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

never  speak  to  you  again.  Oh,  I  don't  dare  to  say  what 
I  think  of  you,  you — man ! ' 

'I  want  to  speak  to  Ted,'  moaned  Mrs.  Boulte,  but 
the  dog-cart  rattled  on,  and  Kurrell  was  left  on  the 
road,  shamed,  and  boiling  with  wrath  against  Mrs.  Boulte. 

He  waited  till  Mrs.  Vansuythen  was  driving  back  to 
her  own  house,  and,  she  being  freed  from  the  embarrass- 
ment of  Mrs.  Boulte's  presence,  learned  for  the  second 
time  her  opinion  of  himself  and  his  actions. 

In  the  evenings,  it  was  the  wont  of  all  Kashima  to 
meet  at  the  platform  on  the  Narkarra  Road,  to  drink  tea, 
and  discuss  the  trivialities  of  the  day.  Major  Vansuy- 
then and  his  wife  found  themselves  alone  at  the  gather- 
ing-place for  almost  the  first  time  in  their  remembrance; 
and  the  cheery  Major,  in  the  teeth  of  his  wife's  remark- 
ably reasonable  suggestion  that  the  rest  of  the  Station 
might  be  sick,  insisted  upon  driving  round  to  the  two 
bungalows  and  unearthing  the  population. 

'Sitting  in  the  twilight!'  said  he,  with  great  indig- 
nation, to  the  Boultes.  'That'll  never  do!  Hang  it 
all,  we're  one  family  here!  You  must  come  out,  and 
so  must  Kurrell.  I'll  make  him  bring  his  banjo.' 

So  great  is  the  power  of  honest  simplicity  and  a  good 
digestion  over  guilty  consciences  that  all  Kashima  did 
turn  out,  even  down  to  the  banjo;  and  the  Major  em- 
braced the  company  in  one  expansive  grin.  As  he 
grinned,  Mrs.  Vansuythen  raised  her  eyes  for  an  instant 
and  looked  at  all  Kashima.  Her  meaning  was  clear. 
Major  Vansuythen  would  never  know  anything.  He 
was  to  be  the  outsider  in  that  happy  family  whose  cage 
was  the  Dosehri  hills. 

'You're  singing  villainously  out  of  tune,  Kurrell,' 
said  the  Major  truthfully.  'Pass  me  that  banjo.' 


A  WAYSIDE  COMEDY  51 

And  he  sang  in  excruciating-wise  till  the  stars  came  out 
and  all  Kashima  went  to  dinner. 


That  was  the  beginning  of  the  New  Life  of  Kashima 
—the  life  that  Mrs.  Boulte  made  when  her  tongue  was 
loosened  in  the  twilight. 

Mrs.  Vansuythen  has  never  told  the  Major;  and  since 
he  insists  upon  keeping  up  a  burdensome  geniality,  she 
has  been  compelled  to  break  her  vow  of  not  speaking  to 
Kurrell.  This  speech,  which  must  of  necessity  preserve 
the  semblance  of  politeness  and  interest,  serves  admirably 
to  keep  alight  the  flame  of  jealousy  and  dull  hatred  in 
Boulte's  bosom,  as  it  awakens  the  same  passions  in  his 
wife's  heart.  Mrs.  Boulte  hates  Mrs.  Vansuythen  be- 
cause she  has  taken  Ted  from  her,  and,  in  some  curious 
fashion,  hates  her  because  Mrs.  Vansuythen — and  here 
the  wife's  eyes  see  far  more  clearly  than  the  husband's — 
detests  Ted.  And  Ted — that  gallant  captain  and  honour- 
able man — knows  now  that  it  is  possible  to  hate  a  woman 
once  loved,  to  the  verge  of  wishing  to  silence  her  for  ever 
with  blows.  Above  all,  is  he  shocked  that  Mrs.  Boulte 
cannot  see  the  error  of  her  ways. 

Boulte  and  he  go  out  tiger-shooting  together  in  all 
friendship.  Boulte  has  put  their  relationship  on  a  more 
satisfactory  footing. 

'You're  a  blackguard/  he  says  to  Kurrell,  'and  I've 
lost  any  self-respect  I  may  ever  have  had;  but  when 
you're  with  me,  I  can  feel  certain  that  you  are  not  with 
Mrs.  Vansuythen,  or  making  Emma  miserable.' 

Kurrell  endures  anything  that  Boulte  may  say  to  him. 
Sometimes  they  are  away  for  three  days  together,  and 
then  the  Major  insists  upon  his  wife  going  over  to  sit  with 
Mrs.  Boulte;  although  Mrs.  Vansuythen  has  repeatedly 


52  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

declared  that  she  prefers  her  husband's  company  to  any 
in  the  world.  From  the  way  in  which  she  clings  to  him, 
she  would  certainly  seem  to  be  speaking  the  truth. 

But  of  course,  as  the  Major  says,  'in  a  little  Station  we 
must  all  be  friendly.' 


THE  PIT  THAT  THEY  DIGGED1 

MR.  HAWKINS  MUMRATH,  of  Her  Majesty's  Bengal  Civil 
Service,  lay  down  to  die  of  enteric  fever;  and,  being 
a  thorough-minded  man,  so  nearly  accomplished  his 
purpose  that  all  his  friends,  two  doctors,  and  the  Govern- 
ment he  served  gave  him  up  for  lost.  Indeed,  upon  a 
false  rumour  the  night  before  he  rallied,  several  journals 
published  very  pleasant  obituary  notices,  which,  three 
weeks  later,  Mr.  Mumrath  sat  up  in  bed  and  studied  with 
interest.  It  is  strange  to  read  about  yourself  in  the  past 
tense,  and  soothing  to  discover  that  for  all  your  faults, 
your  world  'might  have  spared  a  better  man.'  When  a 
Bengal  civilian  is  tepid  and  harmless,  newspapers  always 
conclude  their  notices  with  this  reflection.  It  entirely 
failed  to  amuse  Mr.  Mumrath. 

The  loving-kindness  of  the  Government  provides  for 
the  use  of  its  servants  in  the  East  luxuries  undreamed  of 
by  other  civilizations.  A  State-paid  doctor  closed  Mum- 
rath's  eyes, — till  Mumrath  insisted  upon  opening  them 
again;  a  subventionized  undertaker  bought  Government 
timber  for  a  Government  coffin,  and  the  great  Cemetery 
of  §t.  Golgotha-in-Partibus  prepared,  according  to  regula- 
tion, a  brick-lined  grave,  headed  and  edged,  with  masonry 
rests  for  the  coffin.  The  cost  of  that  grave  was  175  rupees 
14  annas,  including  the  lease  of  the  land  hi  perpetuity. 
Very  minute  are  the  instructions  of  the  Government  for 
the  disposal,  wharfage,  and  demurrage  of  its  dead;  but  the 
actual  arrangements  are  not  published  in  any  appendix  to 

'Copyright,  1895,  by  MAOOLLAN  &  Co. 
S3 


54  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

pay  and  pension  rules,  for  the  same  reason  that  led  a 
Prussian  officer  not  to  leave  his  dead  and  wounded  too 
long  in  the  sight  of  a  battery  under  fire. 

Mr.  Mumrath  recovered  and  went  about  his  work,  to 
the  disgust  of  his  juniors  who  had  hoped  promotion  from 
his  decease.  The  undertaker  sold  the  coffin,  at  a  profit, 
to  a  fat  Armenian  merchant  in  Calcutta,  and  the  State- 
paid  doctor  profited  in  practice  by  Mumrath's  resurrec- 
tion from  the  dead.  The  Cemetery  of  St.  Golgotha-in- 
Partibus  sat  down  by  the  head  of  the  new-made  grave 
with  the  beautiful  brick  lining,  and  waited  for  the  corpse 
then  signing  despatches  in  an  office  three  miles  away. 
The  yearly  accounts  were  made  up;  and  there  remained 
over,  unpaid  for,  one  grave,  cost  175  rupees  14  annas. 
The  vouchers  for  all  the  other  graves  carried  the  name  of 
a  deceased  servant  of  the  Government.  Only  one  space 
was  blank  in  the  column. 

Then  Ahutosh  Lai  Deb,  Sub-deputy  Assistant  in  the 
Accounts  Department,  being  full  of  zeal  for  the  State  and 
but  newly  appointed  to  his  important  post,  wrote  officially 
to  the  Cemetery,  desiring  to  know  the  inwardness  of  that 
grave,  and  '  having  the  honour  to  be/  etc.  The  Cemetery 
wrote  officially  that  there  was  no  inwardness  at  all,  but  a 
complete  emptiness;  said  grave  having  been  ordered  for 
Mr.  Hawkins  Mumrath,  and  'had  the  honour  to  remain.' 
Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  had  the  honour  to  point  out  that,  the 
grave  being  unused,  the  Government  could  by  no  means 
pay  for  it.  The  Cemetery  wished  to  know  if  the  account 
could  be  carried  over  to  the  next  year,  'pending  antici- 
pated taking-up  of  grave.' 

Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  said  that  he  was  not  going  to  have  the 
accounts  confused.  Discrepancy  was  the  soul  of  badi- 
nage and  defalcations.  The  Cemetery  would  be  good 
enough  to  adjust  on  the  financial  basis  of  that  year. 


THE  PIT  THAT  THEY  DIGGED  55 

The  Cemetery  wished  they  might  be  buried  if  they  saw 
their  way  to  doing  it,  and  there  really  had  been  more  than 
two  thousand  burned  bricks  put  into  the  lining  of  the 
grave.  Meantime,  they  complained,  the  Government 
Brickfield  Audit  was  waiting  until  all  material  should 
have  been  paid  for. 

Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  wrote: ' Refer  to  Mr.  Mumrath.'  The 
Cemetery  referred  semi-officially.  It  struck  them  as 
being  rather  a  delicate  matter,  but  orders  are  orders. 

Hawkins  Mumrath  wrote  back,  saying  that  he  had  the 
honour  to  be  quite  well,  and  not  in  the  least  in  need  of  a 
grave,  brick-lined  or  otherwise.  He  recommended  the 
head  of  the  Cemetery  to  get  into  that  grave  and  stay 
there.  The  Cemetery  forwarded  the  letter  to  Ahutosh 
Lai  Deb,  for  reference  and  order. 

Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  forwarded  it  to  the  Provincial  Gov- 
ernment, who  filed  it  behind  a  mass  of  other  files  and  for- 
got all  about  it. 

A  fat  she -cobra  crawled  into  the  neglected  grave,  and 
laid  her  eggs  among  the  bricks.  The  Rains  fell,  and  a 
little  sprinkling  of  grass  jewelled  the  brick  floor. 

The  Cemetery  wrote  to  Ahutosh  Lai  Deb,  advising 
him  that  Mr.  Mumrath  had  not  paid  for  the  grave,  and  re- 
questing that  the  sum  might  be  stopped  from  his  monthly 
pay.  Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  sent  the  letter  to  Hawkins  Mum- 
rath  as  a  reminder. 

Hawkins  Mumrath  swore;  but  when  he  had  sworn,  he 
began  to  feel  frightened.  The  enteric  fever  had  destroyed 
his  nerve.  He  wrote  to  the  Accounts  Department,  pro- 
testing against  the  injustice  of  paying  for  a  grave  before- 
hand. Deductions  for  pension  or  widow's  annuity  were 
quite  right,  but  this  sort  of  deduction  was  an  imposition 
besides  being  sarcastic. 

Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  wrote  that  Mr.  Mumrath's  style  was 


56  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

not  one  usually  employed  in  official  correspondence,  and 
requested  him  to  modulate  it  and  pay  for  the  grave. 
Hawkins  Mumrath  tossed  the  letter  into  the  fire,  and 
wrote  to  the  Provincial  Government. 

The  Provincial  Government  had  the  honour  to  point 
out  that  the  matter  rested  entirely  between  Mr.  Hawkins 
Mumrath  and  the  Accounts  Department.  They  saw  no 
reason  to  interfere  till  the  money  was  actually  deducted 
from  the  pay.  In  that  eventuality,  if  Mr.  Hawkins  Mum- 
rath  appealed  through  the  proper  channels,  he  might,  if 
the  matter  were  properly  reported  upon,  get  a  refund,  less 
the  cost  of  his  last  letter,  which  was  under-stamped.  The 
Cemetery  wrote  to  Ahutosh  Lai  Deb,  enclosing  triplicate 
of  grave-bill  and  demanding  some  sort  of  settlement. 

Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  deducted  175  rupees  14  annas  from 
Mumrath's  monthly  pay.  Mumrath  appealed  through 
the  proper  channels.  The  Provincial  Government  wrote 
that  the  expenses  of  all  Government  graves  solely  con- 
cerned the  Supreme  Government,  to  whom  his  letter  had 
been  forwarded. 

Mumrath  wrote  to  the  Supreme  Government.  The 
Supreme  Government  had  the  honour  to  explain  that  the 
management  of  St.  Golgotha-in-Partibus  was  under 
direct  control  of  the  Provincial  Government,  to  whom 
they  had  had  the  honour  of  forwarding  his  communica- 
tion. Mumrath  telegraphed  to  the  Cemetery  to  this 
effect. 

The  Cemetery  telegraphed:  'Fiscal  and  finance,  Su- 
preme; management  of  internal  affairs,  Provincial  Gov- 
ernment. Refer  Revenue  and  Agricultural  Department 
for  grave  details.' 

Mumrath  referred  to  the  Revenue  and  Agricultural 
Department.  That  Department  had  the  honour  to  make 
dear  that  it  was  only  concerned  in  the  plantation  of  trees 


THE  PIT  THAT  THEY  DIGGED  57 

round  the  Cemetery.  The  Forest  Department  con- 
trolled the  reboisement  of  the  edges  of  the  paths. 

Mumrath  forwarded  all  the  letters  to  Ahutosh  Lai  Deb, 
with  a  request  for  an  immediate  refund  under  'Rule  431 
A,  Supplementary  Addenda,  Bengal.'  He  invented  rule 
and  reference  pro  re  nata,  having  some  knowledge  of  the 
workings  of  the  Babu  mind. 

The  crest  of  the  Revenue  and  Agricultural  Department 
frightened  Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  more  than  the  reference.  He 
bewilderedly  granted  the  refund,  and  recouped  the  Gov- 
ernment from  the  Cemetery  Establishment  allowance. 

The  Cemetery  Establishment  Executive  Head  wanted 
to  know  what  Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  meant. 

The  Accountant-General  wanted  to  know  what  Ahu- 
tosh Lai  Deb  meant. 

The  Provincial  Government  wanted  to  know  what 
Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  meant. 

The  Revenue  and  Agriculture,  the  Forest  Department, 
and  the  Government  Harness  Depot,  which  supplies  the 
leather  slings  for  the  biers,  all  wanted  to  know  what  the 
deuce  Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  meant. 

Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  referred  them  severally  to  Mr.  Haw- 
kins Mumrath,  who  had  driven  out  to  chuckle  over  his 
victory  all  alone  at  the  head  of  the  brick-lined  grave  with 
the  masonry  foot  rests. 

The  she-cobra  was  sunning  herself  by  the  edge  of  the 
grave  with  her  little  ones  about  her,  for  the  eggs  had 
hatched  out  beautifully.  Hawkins  Mumrath  stepped 
absently  on  the  old  lady's  tail,  and  she  bit  him  in  the 
ankle. 

Hawkins  Mumrath  drove  home  very  quickly,  and  died 
in  five  hours  and  three-quarters. 

Then  Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  passed  the  entry  to  'regular 
account,'  and  there  was  peace  in  India. 


THE  HILL  OF  ILLUSION 

What  rendered  vain  their  deep  desire? 
A  God,  a  God  their  severance  ruled, 
And  bade  between  their  shores  to  be 
The  unplumbed,  salt,  estranging  sea. 

Matthew  Arnold. 

HE.    Tell  youTJhampanis  not  to  hurry  so,  dear.     They 
forget  I'm  fresh  from  the  Plains. 

SHE.  Sure  proof  that  /  have  not  been  going  out  with 
any  one.  Yes,  they  are  an  untrained  crew.  Where  do  we 
go? 

HE.    As  usual — to  the  world's  end.     No,  Jakko. 

SHE.  Have  your  pony  led  after  you,  then.  It's  a  long 
round. 

HE.    And  for  the  last  time,  thank  Heaven ! 

SHE.  Do  you  mean  that  still?  I  didn't  dare  to  write  to 
you  about  it — all  these  months. 

HE.  Mean  it!  I've  been  shaping  my  affairs  to  that 
end  since  Autumn.  What  makes  you  speak  as  though 
it  had  occurred  to  you  for  the  first  time? 

SHE.  I?  Oh!  I  don't  know.  I've  had  long  enough 
to  think,  too. 

HE.    And  you've  changed  your  mind? 

SHE.  No.  You  ought  to  know  that  I  am  a  miracle 
of  constancy.  What  are  your — arrangements? 

HE.    Ours,  Sweetheart,  please. 

SHE.  Ours,  be  it  then.  My  poor  boy,  how  the 
prickly  heat  has  marked  your  forehead!  Have  you 
ever  tried  sulphate  of  copper  in  water? 

58 


THE  HILL  OF  ILLUSION  59 

HE.  It'll  go  away  in  a  day  or  two  up  here.  The 
arrangements  are  simple  enough.  Tonga  in  the  early 
morning — reach  Kalka  at  twelve — Umballa  at  seven 
— down,  straight  by  night  train,  to  Bombay,  and 
then  the  steamer  of  the  2ist  for  Rome.  That's 
my  idea.  The  Continent  and  Sweden — a  ten-week 
honeymoon. 

SHE.  Ssh!  Don't  talk  of  it  in  that  way.  It  makes 
me  afraid.  Guy,  how  long  have  we  two  been  insane? 

HE.  Seven  months  and  fourteen  days,  I  forget  the 
odd  hours  exactly,  but  I'll  think. 

SHE.  I  only  wanted  to  see  if  you  remembered.  Who 
are  those  two  on  the  Blessington  Road? 

HE.  Eabrey  and  the  Penner  woman.  What  do 
they  matter  to  us  ?  Tell  me  everything  that  you've 
been  doing  and  saying  and  thinking. 

SHE.  Doing  little,  saying  less,  and  thinking  a  great 
deal.  I've  hardly  been  out  at  all. 

HE.  That  was  wrong  of  you.  You  haven't  been 
moping? 

SHE.  Not  very  much.  Can  you  wonder  that  I'm 
disinclined  for  amusement? 

HE.     Frankly,  I  do.     Where  was  the  difficulty? 

SHE.  In  this  only.  The  more  people  I  know  and 
the  more  I'm  known  here,  the  wider  spread  will  be  the 
news  of  the  crash  when  it  comes.  I  don't  like  that. 

HE.    Nonsense.    We  shall  be  out  of  it. 

SHE.    You  think  so? 

HE.  I'm  sure  of  it,  if  there  is  any  power  hi  steam 
or  horse-flesh  to  carry  us  away.  Ha!  ha! 

SHE.  And  the  fun  of  the  situation  comes  in — where, 
my  Lancelot? 

HE.  Nowhere,  Guinevere.  I  was  only  thinking  of 
something. 


60  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

SHE.  They  say  men  have  a  keener  sense  of  humour 
than  women.  Now  I  was  thinking  of  the  scandal. 

HE.  Don't  think  of  anything  so  ugly.  We  shall 
be  beyond  it. 

SHE.  It  will  be  there  all  the  same — in  the  mouths 
of  Simla — telegraphed  over  India,  and  talked  of  at  the 
dinners — and  when  He  goes  out  they  will  stare  at  Him  to 
see  how  He  takes  it.  And  we  shall  be  dead,  Guy  dear — 
dead  and  cast  into  the  outer  darkness  where  there  is 

HE.     Love  at  least.     Isn't  that  enough? 

SHE.     I  have  said  so. 

HE.     And  you  think  so  still? 

SHE.     What  do  you  think? 

HE.  What  have  I  done  ?  It  means  equal  ruin  to 
me,  as  the  world  reckons  it — outcasting,  the  loss  of 
my  appointment,  the  breaking  off  my  life's  work.  I 
pay  my  price. 

SHE.  And  are  you  so  much  above  the  world  that 
you  can  afford  to  pay  it?  Am  I? 

HE.     My  Divinity — what  else? 

SHE.  A  very  ordinary  woman  I'm  afraid,  but,  so  far, 
respectable.  How  d'you  do,  Mrs.  Middleditch?  Your 
husband?  I  think  he's  riding  down  to  Annandale 
with  Colonel  Statters.  Yes,  isn't  it  divine  after  the 
rain? —  Guy,  how  long  am  I  to  be  allowed  to  bow 
to  Mrs.  Middleditch?  Till  the  iyth? 

HE.  Frowsy  Scotchwoman!  What  is  the  use  of 
bringing  her  into  the  discussion?  You  were  saying? 

SHE.     Nothing.     Have  you  ever  seen  a  man  hanged? 

HE.     Yes.     Once. 

SHE.     What  was  it  for? 

HE.     Murder,  of  course. 

SHE,  Murder.  Is  that  so  great  a  sin  after  all?  I 
wonder  how  he  felt  before  the  drop  fell. 


THE  HILL  OF  ILLUSION  61 

HE.  I  don't  think  he  felt  much.  What  a  gruesome 
little  woman  it  is  this  evening!  You're  shivering.  Put 
on  your  cape,  dear. 

SHE.  I  think  I  will.  Oh!  Look  at  the  mist  com- 
ing over  Sanjaoli;  and  I  thought  we  should  have  sun- 
shine on  the  Ladies'  Mile!  Let's  turn  back. 

HE.  What's  the  good?  There's  a  cloud  on  Elysium 
Hill,  and  that  means  it's  foggy  all  down  the  Mall.  We'll 
go  on.  It'll  blow  away  before  we  get  to  the  Convent, 
perhaps.  'Jove!  It  is  chilly. 

SHE.  You  feel  it,  fresh  from  below.  Put  on  your 
ulster.  What  do  you  think  of  my  cape? 

HE.  Never  ask  a  man  his  opinion  of  a  woman's 
dress  when  he  is  desperately  and  abjectly  in  love  with 
the  wearer.  Let  me  look.  Like  everything  else  of 
yours  it's  perfect.  Where  did  you  get  it  from? 

SHE.  He  gave  it  me,  on  Wednesday — our  wedding- 
day,  you  know. 

HE.  The  Deuce  he  did!  He's  growing  generous 
in  his  old  age.  D'you  like  all  that  frilly,  bunchy  stuff 
at  the  throat?  I  don't. 

SHE.    Don't  you? 

Kind  Sir,  o'  your  courtesy, 

As  you  go  by  the  town,  Sir, 
'Pray  you  o'  your  love  for  me, 

Buy  me  a  russet  gown,  Sir. 

HE.  I  won't  say:  'Keek  into  the  draw-well,  Janet, 
Janet.'  Only  wait  a  little,  darling,  and  you  shall  be 
stocked  with  russet  gowns  and  everything  else. 

SHE.  And  when  the  frocks  wear  out,  you'll  get  me 
new  ones — and  everything  else? 

HE.     Assuredly. 

SHE.    I  wonder! 


62  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

HE.  Look  here,  Sweetheart,  I  didn't  spend  two 
days  and  two  nights  in  the  train  to  hear  you  wonder. 
I  thought  we'd  settled  all  that  at  Shaifazehat. 

SHE  (dreamily).  At  Shaifazehat?  Does  the  Sta- 
tion go  on  still?  That  was  ages  and  ages  ago.  It  must 
be  crumbling  to  pieces.  All  except  the  Amirtollah 
kutcha  road.  I  don't  believe  that  could  crumble  till  the 
Day  of  Judgment. 

HE.     You  think  so?    What  is  the  mood  now? 

SHE.  I  can't  tell.  How  cold  it  is!  Let  us  get  on 
quickly. 

HE.  'Better  walk  a  little.  Stop  yourjhampanis  and 
get  out.  What's  the  matter  with  you  this  evening,  dear? 

SHE.  Nothing.  You  must  grow  accustomed  to  my 
ways.  If  I'm  boring  you  I  can  go  home.  Here's  Cap- 
tain Congleton  coming,  I  daresay  he'll  be  willing  to  es- 
cort me. 

HE.  Goose!  Between  us,  too!  Damn  Captain 
Congleton ! 

SHE.  Chivalrous  Knight.  Is  it  your  habit  to  swear 
much  in  talking?  It  jars  a  little,  and  you  might  swear 
at  me. 

HE.  My  angel!  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  saying; 
and  you  changed  so  quickly  that  I  couldn't  follow.  I'll 
apologise  in  dust  and  ashes. 

SHE.  There'll  be  enough  of  those  later  on —  Good- 
night, Captain  Congleton.  Going  to  the  singing- 
quadrilles  already?  What  dances  am  I  giving  you  next 
week?  No !  You  must  have  written  them  down  wrong. 
Five  and  Seven,  /  said.  If  you've  made  a  mistake,  I 
certainly  don't  intend  to  suffer  for  it.  You  must  alter 
your  programme. 

HE.  I  thought  you  told  me  that  you  had  not  been 
going  out  much  this  season? 


THE  HILL  OF  ILLUSION  63 

SHE.  Quite  true,  but  when  I  do  I  dance  with  Captain 
Congleton.  He  dances  very  nicely. 

HE.     And  sit  out  with  him  I  suppose? 

SHE.  Yes.  Have  you  any  objection?  Shall  I  stand 
under  the  chandelier  in  future? 

HE.     What  does  he  talk  to  you  about? 

SHE.     What  do  men  talk  about  when  they  sit  out? 

HE.  Ugh!  Don't!  Well  now  I'm  up,  you  must  dis- 
pense with  the  fascinating  Congleton  for  a  while.  I 
don't  like  him. 

SHE  (after  a  pause) .    Do  you  know  what  you  have  said? 

HE.  'Can't  say  that  I  do  exactly.  I'm  not  in  the 
best  of  tempers. 

SHE.  So  I  see, — and  feel.  My  true  and  faithful 
lover,  where  is  your  'eternal  constancy/  'unalterable 
trust,'  and  'reverent  devotion'?  I  remember  those 
phrases;  you  seem  to  have  forgotten  them.  I  mention 
a  man's  name — 

HE.    A  good  deal  more  than  that. 

SHE.  Well,  speak  to  him  about  a  dance — perhaps 
the  last  dance  that  I  shall  ever  dance  in  my  life  before 
I, — before  I  go  away;  and  you  at  once  distrust  and 
insult  me. 

HE.     I  never  said  a  word. 

SHE.  How  much  did  you  imply?  Guy,  is  this 
amount  of  confidence  to  be  our  stock  to  start  the  new 
life  on? 

HE.  No,  of  course  not.  I  didn't  mean  that.  On 
my  word  and  honour,  I  didn't.  Let  it  pass,  dear. 
Please  let  it  pass. 

SHE.  This  once — yes — and  a  second  time,  and 
again  and  again,  all  through  the  years  when  I  shall  be 
unable  to  resent  it.  You  want  too  much,  my  Lancelot, 
and, — you  know  too  much. 


64  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

HE.    How  do  you  mean? 

SHE.  That  is  a  part  of  the  punishment.  There  can- 
not be  perfect  trust  between  us. 

HE.     In  Heaven's  name,  why  not? 

SHE.  Hush!  The  Other  Place  is  quite  enough.  Ask 
yourself. 

HE.     I  don't  follow. 

SHE.  You  trust  me  so  implicitly  that  when  I  look 
at  another  man —  Never  mind,  Guy.  Have  you 
ever  made  love  to  a  girl — a  good  girl? 

HE.  Something  of  the  sort.  Centuries  ago — in  the 
Dark  Ages,  before  I  ever  met  you,  dear. 

SHE.     Tell  me  what  you  said  to  her. 

HE.     What  does  a  man  say  to  a  girl?    I've  forgotten. 

SHE.  7  remember.  He  tells  her  that  he  trusts  her 
and  worships  the  ground  she  walks  on,  and  that  he'll 
love  and  honour  and  protect  her  till  her  dying  day; 
and  so  she  marries  in  that  belief.  At  least,  I  speak  of 
one  girl  who  was  not  protected. 

HE.    Well,  and  then? 

SHE.  And  then,  Guy,  and  then,  that  girl  needs  ten 
times  the  love  and  trust  and  honour — yes,  honour — 
that  was  enough  when  she  was  only  a  mere  wife  if— 
if — the  other  life  she  chooses  to  lead  is  to  be  made  even 
bearable.  Do  you  understand? 

HE.     Even  bearable!     It'll  be  Paradise. 

SHE.  Ah!  Can  you  give  me  all  I've  asked  for — 
not  now,  nor  a  few  months  later,  but  when  you  begin 
to  think  of  what  you  might  have  done  if  you  had  kept 
your  own  appointment  and  your  caste  here — when 
you  begin  to  look  upon  me  as  a  drag  and  a  burden?  I 
shall  want  it  most,  then,  Guy,  for  there  will  be  no  one 
in  the  wide  world  but  you. 

HE.    You're  a  little  over-tired  to-night,  Sweetheart, 


THE  HTLT,  OF  ILLUSION  65 

and  you're  taking  a  stage  view  of  the  situation.    After 
the  necessary  business  in  the  Courts,  the  road  is  clear 

SHE.     'The  holy  state  of  matrimony!'    Ha!    ha!    ha! 

HE.     Ssh !    Don't  laugh  in  that  horrible  way ! 

SHE.  I — I  c-c-c-can't  help  it!  Isn't  it  too  absurd! 
Ah!  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Guy,  stop  me  quick  or  I  shall — 
1-1-laugh  till  we  get  to  the  Church. 

HE.  For  goodness'  sake,  stop!  Don't  make  an  ex- 
hibition of  yourself.  What  is  the  matter  with  you? 

SHE.     N-nothing.     I'm  better  now. 

HE.  That's  all  right.  One  moment,  dear.  There's 
a  little  wisp  of  hair  got  loose  from  behind  your  right 
ear  and  it's  straggling  over  your  cheek.  So ! 

SHE.  Thank'oo.  I'm  'fraid  my  hat's  on  one  side, 
too. 

HE.  What  do  you  wear  these  huge  dagger  bonnet- 
skewers  for?  They're  big  enough  to  kill  a  man  with. 

SHE.  Oh!  Don't  kill  me,  though.  You're  sticking 
it  into  my  head !  Let  me  do  it.  You  men  are  so  clumsy. 

HE.  Have  you  had  many  opportunities  of  comparing 
us — in  this  sort  of  work? 

SHE.     Guy,  what  is  my  name? 

HE.     Eh!    I  don't  follow. 

SHE.     Here's  my  card-case.     Can  you  read? 

HE.    Yes.    Well? 

SHE.  Well,  that  answers  your  question.  You  know 
the  other  man's  name.  Am  I  sufficiently  humbled,  or 
would  you  like  to  ask  me  if  there  is  any  one  else? 

HE.  I  see  now.  My  darling,  I  never  meant  that  for 
an  instant.  I  was  only  joking.  There!  Lucky  there's 
no  one  on  the  road.  They'd  be  scandalised. 

SHE.    They'll  be  more  scandalised  before  the  end. 

HE.    Do-on't!     I  don't  like  you  to  talk  in  that  way. 


66  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

SHE.  Unreasonable  man!  Who  asked  me  to  face  the 
situation  and  accept  it? — Tell  me,  do  I  look  like  Mrs. 
Penner?  Do  I  look  like  a  naughty  woman!  Swear  I 
don't!  Give  me  your  word  of  honour,  my  honourable 
friend,  that  I'm  not  like  Mrs.  Buzgago.  That's  the  way 
she  stands,  with  her  hands  clasped  at  the  back  of  her 
head.  D'you  like  that? 

HE.    Don't  be  affected. 

SHE.    I'm  not.    I'm  Mrs.  Buzgago.    Listen! 

Pendant  une  anne'  toute  entiere 
Le  regiment  n'a  pas  r'paru. 
Au  Ministere  de  la  Guerre 
On  le  r'porta  comme  perdu. 

On  se  r'noncait  a  r'trouver  sa  trace, 
Quand  un  matin  subitement, 
On  le  vit  r'paraltre  sur  la  place, 
L'Colonel  toujours  en  avant. 

That's  the  way  she  rolls  her  r's.    Am  I  like  her? 

HE.  No,  Jmt  I  object  when  you  go  on  like  an  actress 
and  sing  stuff  of  that  kind.  Where  in  the  world  did  you 
pick  up  the  Chanson  du  Colonel  ?  It  isn't  a  drawing-room 
song.  It  isn't  proper. 

SHE.  Mrs.  Buzgago  taught  it  me.  She  is  both  draw- 
ing-room and  proper,  and  in  another  month  she'll  shut  her 
drawing-room  to  me,  and  thank  God  she  isn't  as  improper 
as  I  am.  Oh,  Guy,  Guy!  I  wish  I  was  like  some  women 
and  had  no  scruples  about — what  is  it  Keene  says? — 
'Wearing  a  corpse's  hair  and  being  false  to  the  bread  they 
eat.' 

HE.  I  am  only  a  man  of  limited  intelligence,  and,  just 
now,  very  bewildered.  When  you  have  quite  finished 
flashing  through  all  your  moods  tell  me,  and  I'll  try  to 
understand  the  last  one. 


THE  HILL  OF  ILLUSION  67 

SHE.  Moods,  Guy!  I  haven't  any.  I'm  sixteen 
years  old  and  you're  just  twenty,  and  you've  been  waiting 
for  two  hours  outside  the  school  in  the  cold.  And  now 
I've  met  you,  and  now  we're  walking  home  together. 
Does  that  suit  you,  My  Imperial  Majesty? 

HE.  No.  We  aren't  children.  Why  can't  you  be 
rational? 

SHE.  He  asks  me  that  when  I'm  going  to  commit 
suicide  for  his  sake,  and,  and — I  don't  want  to  be  French 
and  rave  about  my  mother,  but  have  I  ever  told  you  that 
I  have  a  mother,  and  a  brother  who  was  my  pet  before  I 
married?  He's  married  now.  Can't  you  imagine  the 
pleasure  that  the  news  of  the  elopement  will  give  him? 
Have  you  any  people  at  Home,  Guy,  to  be  pleased  with 
your  performances? 

HE.  One  or  two.  One  can't  make  omelets  without 
breaking  eggs. 

SHE     (slowly}.    I  don't  see  the  necessity 

HE.    Hah!    What  do  you  mean? 

SHE.     Shall  I  speak  the  truth? 

HE.  Under  the  circumstances,  perhaps  it  would  be  as 
well. 

SHE.     Guy,  I'm  afraid. 

HE.    I  thought  we'd  settled  all  that.    What  of? 

SHE.    Of  you. 

HE.  Oh,  damn  it  all !  The  old  business!  This  is  too 
bad! 

SHE.    Qiyou. 

HE.    And  what  now? 

SHE.    What  do  you  think  of  me? 

HE.  Beside  the  question  altogether.  What  do  you 
hi  tend  to  do? 

SHE.  I  daren't  risk  it.  I'm  afraid.  If  I  couU  only 
cheat 


68  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

HE.  A  la  Buzgago  ?  No,  thanks.  That's  the  one  point 
on  which  I  have  any  notion  of  Honour.  I  won't  eat  his 
salt  and  steal  too.  I'll  loot  openly  or  not  at  all. 

SHE.    I  never  meant  anything  else. 

HE.  Then,  why  in  the  world  do  you  pretend  not  to  be 
willing  to  come? 

SHE.     It's  not  pretence,  Guy.     I  am  afraid. 

HE.     Please  explain. 

SHE.  It  can't  last,  Guy.  It  can't  last.  You'll  get 
angry,  and  then  you'll  swear,  and  then  you'll  get  jealous, 
and  then  you'll  mistrust  me — you  do  now — and  you  your- 
self will  be  the  best  reason  for  doubting.  And  I— what 
shall  7  do?  I  shall  be  no  better  than  Mrs.  Buzgago  found 
out — no  better  than  any  one.  And  you'll  know  that.  Oh, 
Guy,  can't  you  see  ? 

HE.  I  see  that  you  are  desperately  unreasonable,  little 
woman. 

SHE.  There!  The  moment  I  begin  to  object,  you  get 
angry.  What  will  you  do  when  I  am  only  your  property 
— stolen  property?  It  can't  be,  Guy.  It  can't  be!  I 
thought  it  could,  but  it  can't.  You'll  get  tired  of  me. 

HE.  I  tell  you  I  shall  not.  Won't  anything  make 
you  understand  that? 

SHE.  There,  can't  you  see?  If  you  speak  to  me  like 
that  now,  you'll  call  me  horrible  names  later,  if  I  don't  do 
everything  as  you  like.  And  if  you  were  cruel  to  me,  Guy, 
where  should  I  go — where  should  I  go?  I  can't  trust  you. 
Oh !  I  can't  trust  you ! 

HE.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  say  that  I  can  trust  you. 
I've  ample  reason. 

SHE.  Please  don't,  dear.  It  hurts  as  much  as  if  you 
hit  me. 

HE.     It  isn't  exactly  pleasant  for  me. 

SHE.    I  can't  help  it.    I  wish  I  were  dead!    I  can't 


THE  HILL  OF  ILLUSION  69 

trust  you,  and  I  don't  trust  myself.  Oh,  Guy,  let  it  die 
away  and  be  forgotten ! 

HE.  Too  late  now.  I  don't  understand  you — I  won't 
— and  I  can't  trust  myself  to  talk  this  evening.  May  I 
call  to-morrow? 

SHE.  Yes.  No!  Oh,  give  me  time!  The  day  after. 
I  get  into  my  'rickshaw  here  and  meet  Him  at  Peliti's. 
You  ride. 

HE.  I'll  go  on  to  Peliti's  too.  I  think  I  want  a  drink. 
My  world's  knocked  about  my  ears  and  the  stars  are  fall- 
ing. Who  are  those  brutes  howling  in  the  Old  Library? 

SHE.  They're  rehearsing  the  singing-quadrilles  for  the 
Fancy  Ball.  Can't  you  hear  Mrs.  Buzgago's  voice?  She 
has  a  solo.  It's  quite  a  new  idea.  Listen! 

MRS.  BUZGAGO  (in  Hie  Old  Library,  con.  molt.  exp.). 

See  saw!    Margery  Daw! 
Sold  her  bed  to  lie  upon  straw. 
Wasn't  she  a  silly  slut 
To  sell  her  bed  and  lie  upon  dirt? 

Captain  Congleton,  I'm  going  to  alter  that  to  'flirt.'  It 
sounds  better. 

HE.  No,  I've  changed  my  mind  about  the  drink. 
Good-night,  little  lady.  I  shall  see  you  to-morrow? 

SHE.  Ye — es.  Good-night,  Guy.  Don't  be  angry  with 
me. 

HE.  Angry!  You  know  I  trust  you  absolutely.  Good- 
night and — God  bless  you ! 

(Three  seconds  later.  Alone.)  Hmm!  I'd  give  some- 
thing to  discover  whether  there's  another  man  at  the  back 
of  all  this. 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN 

Estfuga,  volvitur  rota, 

On  we  drift:  where  looms  the  dim  port? 
One  Two  Three  Four  Five  contribute  their'quota: 

Something  is  gained  if  one  caught  but  the  import, 
Show  it  us,  Hugues  of  Saxe-Gotha. 

Master  Hugues  of  Saxe-Gotha. 

'DRESSED!  Don't  tell  me  that  woman  ever  dressed  in 
her  life.  She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  while  her 
ayah — no,  her  husband — it  must  have  been  a  man — threw 
her  clothes  at  her.  She  then  did  her  hair  with  her  fingers, 
and  rubbed  her  bonnet  in  the  flue  under  the  bed.  I  know 
she  did,  as  well  as  if  I  had  assisted  at  the  orgie.  Who  is 
she? '  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee. 

'Don't!'  said  Mrs.  Mallowe  feebly.  'You  make  my 
head  ache.  I'm  miserable  to-day.  Stay  me  with  fon- 
dants, comfort  me  with  chocolates,  for  I  am Did 

you  bring  anything  from  Peliti's? ' 

'Questions  to  begin  with.  You  shall  have  the  sweets 
when  you  have  answered  them.  Who  and  what  is  the 
creature?  There  were  at  least  half  a  dozen  men  round  her, 
and  she  appeared  to  be  going  to  sleep  in  their  midst.' 

'Delville,'  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  '" Shady"  Delville,  to 
distinguish  her  from  Mrs.  Jim  of  that  ilk.  She  dances  as 
untidily  as  siie  dresses,  i  believe,  and  her  husband  is  some- 
where in  Madras.  Go  and  call,  if  you  are  so  interested.' 

'What  have  I  to  do  with  Shigramitish  women?  She 
merely  caught  my  attention  for  a  minute,  and  I  wondered 

70 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN  71 

at  the  attraction  that  a  dowd  has  for  a  certain  type  of 
man.  I  expected  to  see  her  walk  out  of  her  clothes — 
until  I  looked  at  her  eyes.' 

'Hooks  and  eyes,  surely/  drawled  Mrs.  Mallowe. 

'Don't  be  clever,  Polly.  You  make  my  head  ache. 
And  round  this  hayrick  stood  a  crowd  of  men — a  positive 
crowd ! ' 

'Perhaps  tliey  also  expected — 

'  Polly,  don't  be  Rabelaisian ! ' 

Mrs.  Mallowe  curled  herself  up  comfortably  on  the  sofa, 
and  turned  her  attention  to  the  sweets.  She  and  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  shared  the  same  house  at  Simla;  and  these 
things  befell  two  seasons  after  the  matter  of  Otis  Yeere, 
Which  has  been  already  recorded. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  stepped  into  the  veranda  and 
looked  down  upon  the  Mall,  her  forehead  puckered  with 
thought. 

'  Hah ! '  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  shortly.     '  Indeed ! ' 

'What  is  it?'  said  Mrs.  Mallowe  sleepily. 

'That  dowd  and  The  Dancing  Master — to  whom  I 
object.' 

'Why  to  The  Dancing  Master?  He  is  a  middle-aged 
gentleman,  of  reprobate  and  romantic  tendencies,  and 
tries  to  be  a  friend  of  mine.' 

'Then  make  up  your  mind  to  lose  him.  Dowds  cling 
by  nature,  and  I  should  imagine  that  this  animal — how 
terrible  her  bonnet  looks  from  above ! — is  specially  cling- 
some.' 

'She  is  welcome  to  The  Dancing  Master  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned.  I  never  could  take  an  interest  in  a  monoto- 
nous liar.  The  frustrated  aim  of  his  life  is  to  persuade 
people  that  he  is  a  bachelor.' 

'O-oh!  I  think  I've  met  that  sort  of  man  before. 
And  isn't  he?' 


j*  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

'No.  He  confided  that  to  me  a  few  days  ago.  Ugh! 
Some  men  ought  to  be  killed.' 

'What  happened  then?' 

'He  posed  as  the  horror  of  horrors — a  misunderstood 
man.  Heaven  knows  thefemme  incomprise  is  sad  enough 
and  bad  enough — but  the  other  thing ! ' 

'And  so  fat  too!  /  should  have  laughed  in  his  face. 
Men  seldom  confide  in  me.  How  is  it  they  come  to  you? ' 

'  For  the  sake  of  impressing  me  with  their  careers  in  the 
past.  Protect  me  from  men  with  confidences ! ' 

'And  yet  you  encourage  them? ' 

'What  can  I  do?  They  talk,  I  listen,  and  they  vow 
that  I  am  sympathetic.  I  know  I  always  profess  astonish- 
ment even  when  the  plot  is — of  the  most  old  possible.' 

'Yes.  Men  are  so  unblushingly  explicit  if  they  are 
once  allowed  to  talk,  whereas  women's  confidences  are 
full  of  reservations  and  fibs,  except — 

'When  they  go  mad  and  babble  of  the  Unutterabili- 
ties  after  a  week's  acquaintance.  Really,  if  you  come 
to  consider,  we  know  a  great  deal  more  of  men  than  of 
our  own  sex.' 

'And  the  extraordinary  thing  is  that  men  will  never 
believe  it.  They  say  we  are  trying  to  hide  something. ' 

'They  are  generally  doing  that  on  their  own  account. 
Alas!  These  chocolates  pall  upon  me,  and  I  haven't 
eaten  more  than  a  dozen.  I  think  I  shall  go  to  sleep.' 

'Then  you'll  get  fat,  dear.  If  you  took  more  exer- 
cise and  a  more  intelligent  interest  in  your  neighbours 
you  would — 

'Be  as  much  loved  as  Mrs.  Hauksbee.  You're  a 
darling  in  many  ways  and  I  like  you — you  are  not  a 
woman's  woman — but  why  do  you  trouble  yourself 
about  mere  human  beings? ' 

'Because  in  the  absence  of  angels,  who  I  am  sure 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN  73 

would  be  horribly  dull,  men  and  women  are  the  most 
fascinating  things  in  the  whole  wide  world,  lazy  one. 
I  am  interested  in  The  Dowd — I  am  interested  in  The 
Dancing  Master — I  am  interested  in  the  Hawley  Boy — 
and  I  am  interested  in  you.' 

'Why  couple  me  with  the  Hawley  Boy?  He  is  your 
property.' 

'Yes,  and  in  his  own  guileless  speech,  I'm  making  a 
good  thing  out  of  him.  When  he  is  slightly  more  re- 
formed, and  has  passed  his  Higher  Standard,  or  whatever 
the  authorities  think  fit  to  exact  from  him,  I  shall  select 
a  pretty  little  girl,  the  Holt  girl,  I  think,  and' — here  she 
waved  her  hands  airily — '"whom  Mrs.  Hauksbee  hath 
joined  together  let  no  man  put  asunder."  That's  all.' 

'And  when  you  have  yoked  May  Holt  with  the  most 
notorious  detrimental  in  Simla,  and  earned  the  undying 
hatred  of  Mamma  Holt,  what  will  you  do  with  me,  Dis- 
penser of  the  Destinies  of  the  Universe?' 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  dropped  into  a  low  chair  in  front  of 
the  fire,  and,  chin  in  hand,  gazed  long  and  steadfastly  at 
Mrs.  Mallowe. 

'I  do  not  know,'  she  said,  shaking  her  head,  'what  I 
shall  do  with  you,  dear.  It's  obviously  impossible  to 
marry  you  to  some  one  else — your  husband  would 
object  and  the  experiment  might  not  be  successful 
after  all.  I  think  I  shall  begin  by  preventing  you  from — 
what  is  it? — "sleeping  on  ale-house  benches  and  snoring 
in  the  sun." 

'Don't!  I  don't  like  your  quotations.  They  are  so 
rude.  Go  to  the  Library  and  bring  me  new  books.' 

'While  you  sleep?  No!  If  you  don't  come  with  me, 
I  shall  spread  your  newest  frock  on  my  'rickshaw-bow, 
and  when  any  one  asks  me  what  I  am  doing,  I  shall  say 
that  I  am  going  to  Phelps's  to  get  it  let  out.  I  shall 


74  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

take  care  that  Mrs.  MacNamara  sees  me.  Put  your 
things  on,  there's  a  good  girl.' 

Mrs.  Mallowe  groaned  and  obeyed,  and  the  two  went 
off  to  the  Library,  where  they  found  Mrs.  Delville  and  the 
man  who  went  by  the  nickname  of  The  Dancing  Master. 
By  that  time  Mrs.  Mallowe  was  awake  and  eloquent. 

'That  is  the  Creature!'  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  with  the 
air  of  one  pointing  out  a  slug  in  the  road. 

'No,'  said  Mrs.  Mallowe.  'The  man  is  the  Creature. 
Ugh!  Good-evening,  Mr.  Bent.  I  thought  you  were 
coming  to  tea  this  evening.' 

'Surely  it  was  for  to-morrow,  was  it  not?'  answered 
The  Dancing  Master.  'I  understood  ...  I  fan- 
cied .  .  .  I'm  so  sorry  .  .  .  How  very  unfor- 
tunate!' .  .  . 

But  Mrs.  Mallowe  had  passed  on. 

'For  the  practised  equivocator  you  said  he  was,' 
murmured  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  'he  strikes  me  as  a  failure. 
Now  wherefore  should  he  have  preferred  a  walk  with 
The  Dowd  to  tea  with  us?  Elective  affinities,  I  sup- 
pose— both  grubby.  Polly,  I'd  never  forgive  that  woman 
as  long  as  the  world  rolls.' 

'I  forgive  every  woman  everything/  said  Mrs.  Mal- 
lowe. 'He  will  be  a  sufficient  punishment  for  her. 
What  a  common  voice  she  has!' 

Mrs.  Delville's  voice  was  not  pretty,  her  carriage 
was  even  less  lovely,  and  her  raiment  was  strikingly 
neglected.  All  these  things  Mrs.  Mallowe  noticed  over 
the  top  of  a  magazine. 

'Now  what  is  there  in  her?'  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee. 
'Do  you  see  what  I  meant  about  the  clothes  falling 
off?  If  I  were  a  man  I  would  perish  sooner  than  be 
seen  with  that  rag-bag.  And  yet,  she  has  good  eyes, 
but— Oh!' 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN  75 

'What  is  it?' 

'She  doesn't  know  how  to  use  them!  On  my  Honour, 
she  does  not.  Look!  Oh  look!  Untidiness  I  can  en- 
dure, but  ignorance  never!  The  woman's  a  fool.' 

'Hsh!    She'll  hear  you.' 

'All  the  women  in  Simla  are  fools.  She'll  think  I 
mean  some  one  else.  Now  she's  going  out.  What 
a  thoroughly  objectionable  couple  she  and  The  Dancing 
Master  make!  Which  reminds  me.  Do  you  suppose 
they'll  ever  dance  together? ' 

'Wait  and  see.  I  don't  envy  her  the  conversation 
of  The  Dancing  Master — loathly  man!  His  wife  ought 
to  be  up  here  before  long.' 

'Do  you  know  anything  about  him?' 

'Only  what  he  told  me.  It  may  be  all  a  fiction. 
He  married  a  girl  bred  in  the  country,  I  think,  and, 
being  an  honourable,  chivalrous  soul,  told  me  that  he 
repented  his  bargain  and  sent  her  to  her  mother  as  often 
as  possible — a  person  who  has  lived  in  the  Doon  since 
the  memory  of  man  and  goes  to  Mussoorie  when  other 
people  go  Home.  The  wife  is  with  her  at  present.  So 
he  says.' 

'Babies?' 

'One  only,  but  he  talks  of  his  wife  in  a  revolting 
way.  I  hated  him  for  it.  He  thought  he  was  being 
epigrammatic  and  brilliant.' 

'That  is  a  vice  peculiar  to  men.  I  dislike  him  because 
he  is  generally  in  the  wake  of  some  girl,  disappointing 
the  Eligibles.  He  will  persecute  May  Holt  no  more, 
unless  I  am  much  mistaken.' 

'No.  I  think  Mrs.  Delville  may  occupy  his  attention 
for  a  while.' 

'Do  you  suppose  she  knows  that  he  is  the  head  of  a 
family?' 


76  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

'Not  from  his  lips.  He  swore  me  to  eternal  secrecy. 
Wherefore  I  tell  you.  Don't  you  know  that  type  of 
man?' 

'Not  intimately,  thank  goodness!  As  a  general 
rule,  when  a  man  begins  to  abuse  his  wife  to  me,  I  find 
that  the  Lord  gives  me  wherewith  to  answer  him  accord- 
ing to  his  folly;  and  we  part  with  a  coolness  between  us. 
I  laugh.' 

'I'm  different.     I've  no  sense  of  humour.' 

'Cultivate  it,  then.  It  has  been  my  mainstay  for 
more  years  than  I  care  to  think  about.  A  well-educated 
sense  of  Humour  will  save  a  woman  when  Religion, 
Training,  and  Home  influences  fail;  and  we  may  all  need 
salvation  sometimes.' 

'Do  you  suppose  that  the  Delville  woman  has  humour? ' 

'Her  dress  bewrays  her.  How  can  a  Thing  who  wears 
her  supplement  under  her  left  arm  have  any  notion  of  the 
fitness  of  things — much  less  their  folly?  If  she  discards 
The  Dancing  Master  after  having  once  seen  him  dance, 
I  may  respect  her.  Otherwise — 

'But  are  we  not  both  assuming  a  great  deal  too  much, 
dear?  You  saw  the  woman  at  Peliti's — half  an  hour 
later  you  saw  her  walking  with  The  Dancing  Master 
— an  hour  later  you  met  her  here  at  the  Library.' 

'Still  with  The  Dancing  Master,  remember.' 

'Still  with  The  Dancing  Master,  I  admit,  but  why  on 
the  strength  of  that  should  you  imagine ' 

'I  imagine  nothing.  I  have  no  imagination.  I  am 
only  convinced  that  The  Dancing  Master  is  attracted 
to  The  Dowd  because  he  is  objectionable  in  every  way 
and  she  in  every  other.  If  I  know  the  man  as  you  have 
described  him,  he  holds  his  wife  in  slavery  at  present.' 

'She  is  twenty  years  younger  than  he.' 

'Poor  wretch!     And,  in  the  end,  after  he  has  posed 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN  77 

and  swaggered  and  lied — he  has  a  mouth  under  that 
ragged  moustache  simply  made  for  lies — he  will  be 
rewarded  according  to  his  merits.' 

'I  wonder  what  those  really  are/  said  Mrs.  Mallowe. 

But  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  her  face  close  to  the  shelf  of  the 
new  books,  was  humming  softly:  'What  shall  he  have 
who  killed  the  Deer!'  She  was  a  lady  of  unfettered 
speech. 

One  month  later,  she  announced  her  intention  of  call- 
ing upon  Mrs.  Delville.  Both  Mrs.  Hauksbee  and  Mrs. 
Mallowe  were  in  morning  wrappers,  and  there  was  a 
great  peace  in  the  land. 

'I  should  go  as  I  was/  said  Mrs.  Mallowe.  'It  would 
be  a  delicate  compliment  to  her  style.' 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  studied  herself  in  the  glass. 

'Assuming  for  a  moment  that  she  ever  darkened  these 
doors,  I  should  put  on  this  robe,  after  all  the  others,  to 
show  her  what  a  morning  wrapper  ought  to  be.  It 
might  enliven  her.  As  it  is,  I  shall  go  in  the  dove- 
coloured — sweet  emblem  of  youth  and  innocence — and 
shall  put  on  my  new  gloves.' 

'If  you  really  are  going,  dirty  tan  would  be  too 
good;  and  you  know  that  dove-colour  spots  with  the 
rain.' 

'I  care  not.  I  may  make  her  envious.  At  least  I 
shall  try,  though  one  cannot  expect  very  much  from  a 
woman  who  puts  a  lace  tucker  into  her  habit.' 

'Just  Heavens!    When  did  she  do  that?' 

'Yesterday — riding  with  The  Dancing  Master.  I  met 
them  at  the  back  of  Jakko,  and  the  rain  had  made  the 
lace  lie  down.  To  complete  the  effect,  she  was  wear- 
ing an  unclean  terai  with  the  elastic  under  her  chin.  I 
felt  almost  too  well  content  to  take  the  trouble  to  despise 
her.' 


78  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

'The  Hawley  Boy  was  riding  with  you.  What  did 
he  think?' 

'Does  a  boy  ever  notice  these  things?  Should  I  like 
him  if  he  did?  He  stared  in  the  rudest  way,  and  just 
when  I  thought  he  had  seen  the  elastic,  he  said,  "There's 
something  very  taking  about  that  face."  I  rebuked  him 
on  the  spot.  I  don't  approve  of  boys  being  taken  by 
faces.' 

*  Other  than  your  own.  I  shouldn't  be  in  the  least  sur- 
prised if  the  Hawley  Boy  immediately  went  to  call.' 

'  I  forbade  him.  Let  her  be  satisfied  with  The  Danc- 
ing Master,  and  his  wife  when  she  comes  up.  I'm 
rather  curious  to  see  Mrs.  Bent  and  the  Delville  woman 
together.' 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  departed  and,  at  the  end  of  an  hour, 
returned  slightly  flushed. 

'There  is  no  limit  to  the  treachery  of  youth!  I 
ordered  the  Hawley  Boy,  as  he  valued  my  patronage, 
not  to  call.  The  first  person  I  stumble  over — literally 
stumble  over — in  her  poky,  dark,  little  drawing-room 
is,  of  course,  the  Hawley  Boy.  She  kept  us  waiting 
ten  minutes,  and  then  emerged  as  though  she  had  been 
tipped  out  of  the  dirty-clothes  basket.  You  know  my 
way,  dear,  when  I  am  at  all  put  out.  I  was  Superior, 
crrrruskingly  Superior!  'Lifted  my  eyes  to  Heaven, 
and  had  heard  of  nothing — 'dropped  my  eyes  on  the 
carpet  and  "really  didn't  know" — 'played  with  my 
card-case  and  "supposed  so."  The  Hawley  Boy  gig- 
gled like  a  girl,  and  I  had  to  freeze  him  with  scowls  be- 
tween the  sentences.' 

'And  she?' 

'She  sat  in  a  heap  on  the  edge  of  a  couch,  and  man- 
aged to  convey  the  impression  that  she  was  suffering 
from  stomach-ache,  at  the  very  least.  It  was  all  I 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN  79 

could  do  not  to  ask  after  her  symptoms.  When  I  rose, 
she  grunted  just  like  a  buffalo  in  the  water — too  lazy 
to  move.' 

'Are  you  certain?— 

'Am  I  blind,  Polly?  Laziness,  sheer  laziness,  noth- 
ing else — or  her  garments  were  only  constructed  for 
sitting  dovvn  in.  I  stayed  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
trying  to  penetrate  the  gloom,  to  guess  what  her  sur- 
roundings were  like,  while  she  stuck  out  her  tongue.' 

'Lu—cyl' 

'Well — I'll  withdraw  the  tongue,  though  I'm  sure  if  she 
didn't  do  it  when  I  was  in  the  room,  she  did  the  minute  I 
was  outside.  At  any  rate,  she  lay  in  a  lump  and  grunted. 
Ask  the  Hawley  Boy,  dear.  I  believe  the  grunts  were 
meant  for  sentences,  but  she  spoke  so  indistinctly  that  I 
can't  swear  to  it.' 

'You  are  incorrigible,  simply.' 

'  I  am  not !  Treat  me  civilly,  give  me  peace  with  honour, 
don't  put  the  only  available  seat  facing  the  window,  and  a 
child  may  eat  jam  in  my  lap  before  Church.  But  I  resent 
being  grunted  at.  Wouldn't  you?  Do  you  suppose  that 
she  communicates  her  views  on  life  and  love  to  The  Danc- 
ing Master  in  a  set  of  modulated  "  Grmphs?  " 

'You  attach  too  much  importance  to  The  Dancing 
Master.' 

'He  came  as  we  went,  and  The  Dowd  grew  almost 
cordial  at  the  sight  of  him.  He  smiled  greasily,  and  moved 
about  that  darkened  dog-kennel  in  a  suspiciously  familiar 
way.' 

'Don't  be  uncharitable.  Any  sin  but  that  I'll  for- 
give.' 

'Listen  to  the  voice  of  History.  I  am  only  describing 
what  I  saw.  He  entered,  the  heap  on  the  sofa  revived 
slightly,  and  the  Hawley  Boy  and  I  came  away  together. 


So  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

He  is  disillusioned,  but  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  lecture  him 
severely  for  going  there.  And  that's  all.' 

'Now  for  Pity's  sake  leave  the  wretched  creature  and 
The  Dancing  Master  alone.  They  never  did  you  any 
harm.' 

'No  harm?  To  dress  as  an  example  and  a  stumbling- 
block  for  half  Simla,  and  then  to  find  this  Person  who  is 
dressed  by  the  hand  of  God — not  that  I  wish  to  disparage 
Him  for  a  moment,  but  you  know  the  tikka  dhurzie  way  He 
attires  those  lilies  of  the  field — this  Person  draws  the  eyes 
of  men — and  some  of  them  nice  men?  It's  almost  enough 
to  make  one  discard  clothing.  I  told  the  Hawley  Boy  so.' 

'And  what  did  that  sweet  youth  do? ' 

'Turned  shell-pink  and  looked  across  the  far  blue  hills 
like  a  distressed  cherub.  A m  I  talking  wildly,  Polly?  Let 
me  say  my  say,  and  I  shall  be  calm.  Otherwise  I  may  go 
abroad  and  disturb  Simla  with  a  few  original  reflections. 
Excepting  always  your  own  sweet  self,  there  isn't  a  single 
woman  in  the  land  who  understands  me  when  I  am — 
what's  the  word?' 

'Tete-felee,'  suggested  Mrs.  Mallowe. 

'  Exactly !   And  now  let  us  have  tiffin.    The  demands  of 

Society  are  exhausting,  and  as  Mrs.  Delville  says 

Here  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  to  the  horror  of  the  khitmatgars, 
lapsed  into  a  series  of  grunts,  while  Mrs.  Mallowe  stared 
in  lazy  surprise. 

'"God  gie  us  a  gude  conceit  of  oorselves,"'  said  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  piously,  returning  to  her  natural  speech. 
'  Now,  in  any  other  woman  that  would  have  been  vulgar. 
I  am  consumed  with  curiosity  to  see  Mrs.  Bent.  I  ex- 
pect complications.' 

'Woman  of  one  idea,'  said  Mrs.  Mallowe  shortly;  'all 
complications  are  as  old  as  the  hills !  I  have  lived  through 
or  near  all — all — ALL!  ' 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN  81 

'And  yet  do  not  understand  that  men  and  women 
never  behave  twice  alike.  I  am  old  who  was  young — if 
ever  I  put  my  head  in  your  lap,  you  dear,  big  sceptic,  you 
will  learn  that  my  parting  is  gauze — but  never,  no  never, 
have  I  lost  my  interest  in  men  and  women.  Polly,  I  shall 
see  this  business  out  to  the  bitter  end.' 

'I  am  going  to  sleep/  said  Mrs.  Mallowe  calmly.  'I 
never  interfere  with  men  or  women  unless  I  am  com- 
pelled,' and  she  retired  with  dignity  to  her  own  room. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee's  curiosity  was  not  long  left  ungratifiedr 
for  Mrs.  Bent  came  up  to  Simla  a  few  days  after  the  con- 
versation faithfully  reported  above,  and  pervaded  the 
Mall  by  her  husband's  side 

'Behold!'  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  thoughtfully  rubbing 
her  nose.  '  That  is  the  last  link  of  the  chain,  if  we  omit  the 
husband  of  the  Delville,  whoever  he  may  be.  Let  me  con- 
sider. The  Bents  and  the  Delvilles  inhabit  the  same 
hotel;  and  the  Delville  is  detested  by  the  Waddy — do  you 
know  the  Waddy? — who  is  almost  as  big  a  dowd.  The 
Waddy  also  abominates  the  male  Bent,  for  which,  if  her 
other  sins  do  not  weigh  too  heavily,  she  will  eventually  go 
to  Heaven.' 

'Don't  be  irreverent,'  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  'I  like  Mrs. 
Bent's  face.' 

'I  am  discussing  the  Waddy,'  returned  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
loftily.  '  The  Waddy  will  take  the  female  Bent  apart,  after 
having  borrowed — yes! — everything  that  she  can,  from 
hairpins  to  babies'  bottles.  Such,  my  dear,  is  life  in  a 
hotel.  The  Waddy  will  tell  the  female  Bent  facts  and 
fictions  about  The  Dancing  Master  and  The  Dowd.' 

'Lucy,  I  should  like  you  better  if  you  were  not  always 
looking  into  people's  back-bedrooms.' 

'Anybody  can  look  into  their  front  drawing-rooms;  and 
remember  whatever  I  do,  and  whatever  I  look,  I  never 


82  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

talk — as  the  Waddy  will.  Let  us  hope  that  The  Dancing 
Master's  greasy  smile  and  manner  of  the  pedagogue  will 
soften  the  heart  of  that  cow,  his  wife.  If  mouths  speak 
truth,  I  should  think  that  little  Mrs.  Bent  could  get  very 
angry  on  occasion.' 

'But  what  reason  has  she  for  being  angry? ' 

'What  reason!  The  Dancing  Master  in  himself  is  a 
reason.  How  does  it  go?  "If  in  his  life  some  trivial 
errors  fall,  Look  in  his  face  and  you'll  believe  them  all."  I 
am  prepared  to  credit  any  evil  of  The  Dancing  Master, 
because  I  hate  him  so.  And  The  Dowd  is  so  disgustingly 
badly  dressed 

'That  she,  too,  is  capable  of  every  iniquity?  I  always 
prefer  to  believe  the  best  of  everybody.  It  saves  so  much 
trouble.' 

'  Very  good.  I  prefer  to  believe  the  worst.  It  saves  use- 
less expenditure  of  sympathy.  And  you  may  be  quite 
certain  that  the  Waddy  believes  with  me.' 

Mrs.  Mallowe  sighed  and  made  no  answer. 

The  conversation  was  holden  after  dinner  while  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  was  dressing  for  a  dance. 

'I  am  too  tired  to  go,'  pleaded  Mrs.  Mallowe,  and  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  left  her  in  peace  till  two  in  the  morning,  when 
she  was  aware  of  emphatic  knocking  at  her  door. 

'Don't  be  very  angry,  dear,'  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee.  'My 
idiot  of  an  ayah  has  gone  home,  and,  as  I  hope  to  sleep  to- 
night, there  isn't  a  soul  in  the  place  to  unlace  me.' 

'  Oh,  this  is  too  bad ! '  said  Mrs.  Mallowe  sulkily. 

'  'Can't  help  it.  I'm  a  lone,  lorn  grass-widow,  dear,  but 
I  will  not  sleep  in  my  stays.  And  such  news  too !  Oh,  do 
unlace  me,  there's  a  darling!  The  Dowd — The  Dancing 
Master — I  and  the  Hawley  Boy — You  know  the  North 
veranda? ' 

'How  can  I  do  anything  if  you  spin  round  like  this?' 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN  83 

protested  Mrs.  Mallowe,  fumbling  with  the  knot  of  the 
laces. 

'Oh,  I  forget.  I  must  tell  my  tale  without  the  aid  of 
your  eyes.  Do  you  know  you've  lovely  eyes,  dear?  Well, 
to  begin  with,  I  took  the  Hawley  Boy  to  a  kala  juggahJ 

'Did  he  want  much  taking? ' 

'Lots!  There  was  an  arrangement  of  loose-boxes  in 
kanats,  and  she  was  in  the  next  one  talking  to  him.' 

'Which?  How?   Explain.' 

'You  know  what  I  mean — The  Dowd  and  The  Dancing 
Master.  We  could  hear  every  word,  and  we  listened 
shamelessly — 'specially  the  Hawley  Boy.  Polly,  I  quite 
love  that  woman ! ' 

'This  is  interesting.  There!  Now  turn  round.  What 
happened? ' 

'  One  moment.  Ah — h !  Blessed  relief.  I've  been  look- 
ing forward  to  taking  them  off  for  the  last  half-hour — 
which  is  ominous  at  my  time  of  life.  But,  as  I  was  saying, 
we  listened  and  heard  The  Dowd  drawl  worse  than  ever. 
She  drops  her  final  g's  like  a  barmaid  or  a  blue-blooded 
Aide-de-Camp.  "Look  he-ere,  you're  gettin'  too  fond  o' 
me,"  she  said,  and  The  Dancing  Master  owned  it  was  so 
in  language  that  nearly  made  me  ill.  The  Dowd  reflected 
for  a  while.  Then  we  heard  her  say,  "Look  he-ere,  Mister 
Bent,  why  are  you  such  an  aw-ful  liar?"  I  nearly  ex- 
ploded while  The  Dancing  Master  denied  the  charge.  It 
seems  that  he  never  told  her  he  was  a  married  man.' 

'  I  said  he  wouldn't.' 

'And  she  had  taken  this  to  heart,  on  personal  grounds, 
I  suppose.  She  drawled  along  for  five  minutes,  reproach- 
ing him  with  his  perfidy  and  grew  quite  motherly.  "Now 
you've  got  a  nice  little  wife  of  your  own — you  have,"  she 
said.  "  She's  ten  times  too  good  for  a  fat  old  man  like  you, 
and,  look  he-ere,  you  never  told  me  a  word  about  her,  and 


84  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

I've  been  thinkin'  about  it  a  good  deal,  and  I  think  you're 
a  liar."  Wasn't  that  delicious?  The  Dancing  Master 
maundered  and  raved  till  the  Hawley  Boy  suggested  that 
he  should  burst  in  and  beat  him.  His  voice  runs  up  into 
an  impassioned  squeak  when  he  is  afraid.  The  Dowd 
must  be  an  extraordinary  woman.  She  explained  that 
had  he  been  a  bachelor  she  might  not  have  objected  to  his 
devotion;  but  since  he  was  a  married  man  and  the  father 
of  a  very  nice  baby,  she  considered  him  a  hypocrite,  and 
this  she  repeated  twice.  She  wound  up  her  drawl  with: 
"An'  I'm  tellin'  you  this  because  your  wife  is  angry  with 
me,  an'  I  hate  quarrellin'  with  any  other  woman,  an'  I 
like  your  wife.  You  know  how  you  have  behaved  for  the 
last  six  weeks.  You  shouldn't  have  done  it,  indeed  you 
shouldn't.  You're  too  old  an'  too  fat."  Can't  you  im- 
agine how  The  Dancing  Master  would  wince  at  that! 
"Now  go  away,"  she  said.  "I  don't  want  to  tell  you 
what  I  think  of  you,  because  I  think  you  are  not  nice.  I'll 
stay  he-ere  till  the  next  dance  begins."  Did  you  think 
that  the  creature  had  so  much  in  her? ' 

'I  never  studied  her  as  closely  as  you  did.  It  sounds 
unnatural.  What  happened? ' 

'The  Dancing  Master  attempted  blandishment,  re- 
proof, jocularity,  and  the  style  of  the  Lord  High  Warden, 
and  I  had  almost  to  pinch  the  Hawley  Boy  to  make  him 
keep  quiet.  She  grunted  at  the  end  of  each  sentence  and, 
in  the  end,  he  went  away  swearing  to  himself,  quite  like  a 
man  in  a  novel.  He  looked  more  objectionable  than  ever. 
I  laughed.  I  love  that  woman — in  spite  of  her  clothes. 
And  now  I'm  going  to  bed.  What  do  you  think  of  it? ' 

'I  shan't  begin  to  think  till  the  morning,'  said  Mrs. 
Mallowe  yawning.  '  Perhaps  she  spoke  the  truth.  They 
do  fly  into  it  by  accident  sometimes.' 

Mrs.  Hauksbee's  account  of  her  eavesdropping  was  an 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN  85 

ornate  one  but  truthful  in  the  main.  For  reasons  best 
known  to  herself,  Mrs.  'Shady'  Delville  had  turned  upon 
Mr.  Bent  and  rent  him  limb  from  limb,  casting  him  away 
limp  and  disconcerted  ere  she  withdrew  the  light  of  her 
eyes  from  him  permanently.  Being  a  man  of  resource, 
and  anything  but  pleased  in  that  he  had  been  called  both 
old  and  fat,  he  gave  Mrs.  Bent  to  understand  that  he  had, 
during  her  absence  in  the  Doon,  been  the  victim  of  un- 
ceasing persecution  at  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Delville,  and  he 
told  the  tale  so  often  and  with  such  eloquence  that  he 
ended  in  believing  it,  while  his  wife  marvelled  at  the 
manners  and  customs  of  'some  women.'  When  the  situ- 
ation showed  signs  of  languishing,  Mrs.  Waddy  was 
always  on  hand  to  wake  the  smouldering  fires  of  suspicion 
in  Mrs.  Bent's  bosom  and  to  contribute  generally  to  the 
peace  and  comfort  of  the  hotel.  Mr.  Bent's  life  was  not  a 
happy  one,  for  if  Mrs.  Waddy's  story  were  true,  he  was, 
argued  his  wife,  untrustworthy  to  the  last  degree.  If  his 
own  statement  were  true,  his  charms  of  manner  and  con- 
versation were  so  great  that  he  needed  constant  sur- 
veillance. And  he  received  it,  till  he  repented  genuinely 
of  his  marriage  and  neglected  his  personal  appearance. 
Mrs.  Delville  alone  in  the  hotel  was  unchanged.  She  re- 
moved her  chair  some  six  paces  towards  the  head  of  the 
table,  and  occasionally  in  the  twilight  ventured  on  timid 
overtures  of  friendship  to  Mrs.  Bent,  which  were  repulsed. 

'She  does  it  for  my  sake,'  hinted  the  virtuous  Bent. 

'A  dangerous  and  designing  woman,'  purred  Mrs. 
Waddy. 

Worst  of  all,  every  other  hotel  in  Simla  was  full! 


'Polly,  are  you  afraid  of  diphtheria? ' 

'Of  nothing  in  the  world  except  smallpox.    Diph- 


86  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

theria  kills,  but  it  doesn't  disfigure.  Why  do  you 
ask?' 

'Because  the  Bent  baby  has  got  it,  and  the  whole 
hotel  is  upside  down  in  consequence.  The  Waddy  has 
"set  her  five  young  on  the  rail"  and  fled.  The  Danc- 
ing Master  fears  for  his  precious  throat,  and  that  miser- 
able little  woman,  his  wife,  has  no  notion  of  what  ought 
to  be  done.  She  wanted  to  put  it  into  a  mustard  bath 
— for  croup!' 

'Where  did  you  learn  all  this?' 

'Just  now,  on  the  Mall.  Dr.  Howlen  told  me.  The 
Manager  of  the  hotel  is  abusing  the  Bents,  and  the 
Bents  are  abusing  the  manager.  They  are  a  feckless 
couple.' 

'Well.     What's  on  your  mind? ' 

'This;  and  I  know  it's  a  grave  thing  to  ask.  Would 
you  seriously  object  to  my  bringing  the  child  over  here, 
with  its  mother?' 

'  On  the  most  strict  understanding  that  we  see  nothing 
of  The  Dancing  Master.' 

'He  will  be  only  too  glad  to  stay  away.  Polly,  you're 
an  angel.  The  woman  really  is  at  her  wits'  end.' 

'And  you  know  nothing  about  her,  careless,  and 
would  hold  her  up  to  public  scorn  if  it  gave  you  a  min- 
ute's amusement.  Therefore  you  risk  your  life  for  the 
sake  of  her  brat.  No,  Loo,  I'm  not  the  angel.  I  shall 
keep  to  my  rooms  and  avoid  her.  But  do  as  you  please 
— only  tell  me  why  you  do  it.' 

Mrs.  Hauksbee's  eyes  softened;  she  looked  out  of  the 
window  and  back  into  Mrs.  Mallowe's  face. 

'I  don't  know,'  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  simply. 

'You  dear!' 

'Polly! — and  for  aught  you  knew  you  might  have 
taken  my  fringe  off.  Never  do  that  again  without 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN  87 

warning.  Now  we'll  get  the  rooms  ready.  I  don't 
suppose  I  shall  be  allowed  to  circulate  in  society  for  a 
month/ 

'And  I  also.  Thank  goodness  I  shall  at  last  get  all 
the  sleep  I  want.' 

Much  to  Mrs.  Bent's  surprise  she  and  the  baby  were 
brought  over  to  the  house  almost  before  she  knew  where 
she  was.  Bent  was  devoutly  and  undisguisedly  thank- 
ful, for  he  was  afraid  of  the  infection,  and  also  hoped 
that  a  few  weeks  in  the  hotel  alone  with  Mrs.  Delville 
might  lead  to  explanations.  Mrs.  Bent  had  thrown 
her  jealousy  to  the  winds  in  her  fear  for  her  child's 
life. 

'We  can  give  you  good  milk,'  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  to 
her,  'and  our  house  is  much  nearer  to  the  Doctor's  than 
the  hotel,  and  you  won't  feel  as  though  you  were  living 
in  a  hostile  camp.  Where  is  the  dear  Mrs.  Waddy? 
She  seemed  to  be  a  particular  friend  of  yours.' 

'They've  all  left  me,'  said  Mrs.  Bent  bitterly.  'Mrs. 
Waddy  went  first.  She  said  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
myself  for  introducing  diseases  there,  and  I  am  sure  it 
wasn't  my  fault  that  little  Dora — 

'How  nice!'  cooed  Mrs.  Hauksbee.  'The  Waddy 
is  an  infectious  disease  herself — "more  quickly  caught 
than  the  plague  and  the  taker  runs  presently  mad."  I 
lived  next  door  to  her  at  the  Elysium,  three  years  ago. 
Now  see,  you  won't  give  us  the  least  trouble,  and  I've 
ornamented  all  the  house  with  sheets  soaked  in  carbolic. 
It  smells  comforting,  doesn't  it?  Remember  I'm  always 
in  call,  and  my  ayah's  at  your  service  when  yours  goes 
to  her  meals  and — and — if  you  cry  I'll  never  forgive 
you.' 

Dora  Bent  occupied  her  mother's  unprofitable  atten- 
tion through  the  day  and  the  night.  The  Doctor 


88  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

called  thrice  in  the  twenty-four  hours,  and  the  house 
reeked  with  the  smell  of  the  Condy's  Fluid,  chlorine- 
water,  and  carbolic  acid  washes.  Mrs.  Mallowe  kept 
to  her  own  rooms — she  considered  that  she  had  made 
sufficient  concessions  in  the  cause  of  humanity — and 
Mrs.  Hauksbee  was  more  esteemed  by  the  Doctor  as  a 
help  in  the  sick-room  than  the  half-distraught  mother. 

'I  know  nothing  of  illness/  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  to 
the  Doctor.  'Only  tell  me  what  to  do,  and  I'll  do  it.' 

'Keep  that  crazy  woman  from  kissing  the  child,  and 
let  her  have  as  little  to  do  with  the  nursing  as  you  pos- 
sibly can,'  said  the  Doctor;  'I'd  turn  her  out  of  the 
sick-room,  but  that  I  honestly  believe  she'd  die  of  anx- 
iety. She  is  less  than  no  good,  and  I  depend  on  you 
and  the  ayahs,  remember.' 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  accepted  the  responsibility,  though  it 
painted  olive  hollows  under  her  eyes  and  forced  her  to 
her  oldest  dresses.  Mrs.  Bent  clung  to  her  with  more 
than  childlike  faith. 

'I  know  you'll  make  Dora  well,  won't  you?'  she 
said  at  least  twenty  times  a  day;  and  twenty  times  a 
day  Mrs.  Hauksbee  answered  valiantly,  'Of  course  I 
will.' 

But  Dora  did  not  improve,  and  the  Doctor  seemed  to 
be  always  in  the  house. 

'There's  some  danger  of  the  thing  taking  a  bad  turn,' 
he  said;  'I'll  come  over  between  three  and  four  in  the 
morning  to-morrow.' 

'Good  gracious!'  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee.  'He  never 
told  me  what  the  turn  would  be!  My  education  has 
been  horribly  neglected;  and  I  have  only  this  foolish 
mother- woman  to  fall  back  upon.' 

The  night  wore  through  slowly,  and  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
dozed  in  a  chair  by  the  fire.  There  was  a  dance  at  the 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN  89 

Viceregal  Lodge,  and  she  dreamed  of  it  till  she  was 
aware  of  Mrs.  Bent's  anxious  eyes  staring  into  her  own. 

'Wake  up!  Wake  up!  Do  something!'  cried  Mrs. 
Bent  piteously.  'Dora's  choking  to  death!  Do  you 
mean  to  let  her  die?' 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  jumped  to  her  feet  and  bent  over  the 
bed.  The  child  was  fighting  for  breath,  while  the 
mother  wrung  her  hands  despairing. 

'Oh,  what  can  I  do?  What  can  you  do?  She  won't 
stay  still!  I  can't  hold  her.  Why  didn't  the  Doctor 
say  this  was  coming?'  screamed  Mrs.  Bent.  ' Won't 
you  help  me?  She's  dying!' 

'I — I've  never  seen  a  child  die  before!'  stammered 
Mrs.  Hauksbee  feebly,  and  then — let  none  blame  her 
weakness  after  the  strain  of  long  watching — she  broke 
down,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  The 
ayahs  on  the  threshold  snored  peacefully. 

There  was  a  rattle  of  'rickshaw  wheels  below,  the 
clash  of  an  opening  door,  a  heavy  step  on  the  stairs, 
and  Mrs.  Delville  entered  to  find  Mrs.  Bent  screaming 
for  the  Doctor  as  she  ran  round  the  room.  Mrs.  Hauks- 
bee, her  hands  to  her  ears,  and  her  face  buried  in  the 
chintz  of  a  chair,  was  quivering  with  pain  at  each 
cry  from  the  bed,  and  murmuring,  'Thank  God,  I 
never  bore  a  child!  Oh!  thank  God,  I  never  bore  a 
child!' 

Mrs.  Delville  looked  at  the  bed  for  an  instant,  took 
Mrs.  Bent  by  the  shoulders,  and  said  quietly,  'Get  me 
some  caustic.  Be  quick.' 

The  mother  obeyed  mechanically.  Mrs.  Delville  had 
thrown  herself  down  by  the  side  of  the  child  and  was 
opening  its  mouth. 

'Oh,  you're  killing  her!'  cried  Mrs.  Bent.  'Where's 
the  Doctor?  Leave  her  alone!' 


QO  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Mrs.  Delville  made  no  reply  for  a  minute,  but  busied 
herself  with  the  child. 

'Now  the  caustic,  and  hold  a  lamp  behind  my  shoulder. 
Will  you  do  as  you  are  told?  The  acid-bottle,  if  you 
don't  know  what  I  mean/  she  said. 

A  second  time  Mrs.  Delville  bent  over  the  child. 
Mrs.  Hauksbee,  her  face  still  hidden,  sobbed  and  shiv- 
ered. One  of  the  ayahs  staggered  sleepily  into  the  room, 
yawning: ' Doctor  Sahib  come.' 

Mrs.  Delville  turned  her  head. 

'You're  only  just  in  time/  she  said.  'It  was  chokin' 
her  when  I  came  an'  I've  burnt  it.' 

'There  was  no  sign  of  the  membrane  getting  to  the 
air-passages  after  the  last  steaming.  It  was  the  gen- 
eral weakness,  I  feared/  said  the  Doctor  half  to  him- 
self, and  he  whispered  as  he  looked,  'You've  done 
what  I  should  have  been  afraid  to  do  without  consulta- 
tion.' 

'She  was  dyin'/  said  Mrs.  Delville,  under  her  breath. 
'Can  you  do  any  thin'?  What  a  mercy  it  was  I  went 
to  the  dance!' 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  raised  her  head. 

'Is  it  all  over?'  she  gasped.  'I'm  useless — I'm  worse 
than  useless!  What  are  you  doing  here?' 

She  stared  at  Mrs.  Delville,  and  Mrs.  Bent,  realising 
for  the  first  time  who  was  the  Goddess  from  the  Machine, 
stared  also. 

Then  Mrs.  Delville  made  explanation,  putting  on  a 
dirty  long  glove  and  smoothing  a  crumpled  and  ill- 
fitting  ball-dress. 

'I  was  at  the  dance,  an'  the  Doctor  was  tellin'  me 
about  your  baby  bein'  so  ill.  So  I  came  away  early, 
an'  your  door  was  open,  an'  I — I — lost  my  boy  this 
way  six  months  ago,  an'  I've  been  tryin'  to  forget  it  ever 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN  91 

since,  an'  I — I — I  am  very  sorry  for  intrudin'  an'  any- 
thin'  that  has  happened.' 

Mrs.  Bent  was  putting  out  the  Doctor's  eye  with  a 
lamp  as  he  stooped  over  Dora. 

'Take  it  away/  said  the  Doctor.  'I  think  the  child 
will  do,  thanks  to  you,  Mrs.  Delville.  /  should  have 
come  too  late,  but,  I  assure  you' — he  was  addressing 
himself  to  Mrs.  Delville — 'I  had  not  the  faintest  reason 
to  expect  this.  The  membrane  must  have  grown  like  a 
mushroom.  Will  one  of  you  help  me,  please?' 

He  had  reason  for  the  last  sentence.  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
had  thrown  herself  into  Mrs.  Delville's  arms,  where  she 
was  weeping  bitterly,  and  Mrs.  Bent  was  unpicturesquely 
mixed  up  with  both,  while  from  the  tangle  came  the 
sound  of  many  sobs  and  much  promiscuous  kissing. 

'  Good  gracious !  I've  spoilt  all  your  beautiful  roses !' 
said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  lifting  her  head  from  the  lump  of 
crushed  gum  and  calico  atrocities  on  Mrs.  Delville's 
shoulder  and  hurrying  to  the  Doctor. 

Mrs.  Delville  picked  up  her  shawl,  and  slouched  out 
of  the  room,  mopping  her  eyes  with  the  glove  that  she 
had  not  put  on. 

'I  always  said  she  was  more  than  a  woman,'  sobbed 
Mrs.  Hauksbee  hysterically,  'and  that  proves  it!' 


Six  weeks  later,  Mrs.  Bent  and  Dora  had  returned 
to  the  hotel.  Mrs.  Hauksbee  had  come  out  of  the 
Valley  of  Humiliation,  had  ceased  to  reproach  herself 
for  her  collapse  in  an  hour  of  need,  and  was  even  be- 
ginning to  direct  the  affairs  of  the  world  as  before. 

'  So  nobody  died,  and  everything  went  off  as  it  should, 
and  I  kissed  The  Dowd,  Polly.  I  feel  so  old.  Does 
it  show  in  my  face?' 


92  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

'Kisses  don't  as  a  rule,  do  they?  Of  course  you 
know  what  the  result  of  The  Dowd's  providential  arrival 
has  been.' 

'They  ought  to  build  her  a  statue — only  no  sculptor 
dare  copy  those  skirts.' 

'Ah!'  said  Mrs.  Mallowe  quietly.  'She  has  found 
another  reward.  The  Dancing  Master  has  been  smirk- 
ing through  Simla,  giving  every  one  to  understand  that 
she  came  because  of  her  undying  love  for  him — for  him — 
to  save  his  child,  and  all  Simla  naturally  believes  this.' 

'But  Mrs.  Bent— 

'Mrs.  Bent  believes  it  more  than  any  one  else.  She 
won't  speak  to  The  Dowd  now.  Isn't  The  Dancing 
Master  an  angel?' 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  lifted  up  her  voice  and  raged  till  bed- 
time. The  doors  of  the  two  rooms  stood  open. 

'Polly,'  said  a  voice  from  the  darkness,  'what  did 
that  American-heiress-globe-trotter  girl  say  last  season 
when  she  was  tipped  out  of  her  'rickshaw  turning  a 
corner?  Some  absurd  adjective  that  made  the  man 
who  picked  her  up  explode.' 

'"Paltry,"'  said  Mrs.  Mallowe.  'Through  her  nose 
-like  this— "Ha-ow  pahltry!" 

'Exactly,'  said  the  voice.     ' Ha-ow  pahltry  it  all  is!' 

'Which?' 

'Everything.  Babies,  Diphtheria,  Mrs.  Bent  and 
The  Dancing  Master,  I  whooping  in  a  chair,  and  The 
Dowd  dropping  in  from  the  clouds.  I  wonder  what 
the  motive  was — all  the  motives.' 

'Urn!' 

'What  do  you  think?' 

'Don't  ask  me.     Go  to  sleep.' 


ONLY  A  SUBALTERN 

.  .  .  Not  only  to  enforce  by  command  but  to  encourage  by  example 
the  energetic  discharge  «f  duty  and  the  steady  endurance  of  the  diffi- 
culties and  privations  inseparable  from  Military  Service. — Bengal 
Army  Regulations. 

THEY  made  Bobby  Wick  pass  an  examination  at  Sand- 
hurst. He  was  a  gentleman  before  he  was  gazetted,  so, 
when  the  Empress  announced  that  'Gentleman-Cadet 
Robert  Hanna  Wick'  was  posted  as  Second  Lieutenant  to 
the  Tyneside  Tail  Twisters  at  Krab  Bokhar,  he  became 
an  officer  and  a  gentleman,  which  is  an  enviable  thing; 
and  there  was  joy  in  the  house  of  Wick  where  Mamma 
Wick  and  all  the  little  Wicks  fell  upon  their  knees  and 
offered  incense  to  Bobby  by  virtue  of  his  achievements. 

Papa  Wick  had  been  a  Commissioner  in  his  day,  hold- 
ing authority  over  three  millions  of  men  in  the  Chota- 
Buldana  Division,  building  great  works  for  the  good  of 
the  land,  and  doing  his  best  to  make  two  blades  of  grass 
grow  where  there  was  but  one  before.  Of  course,  nobody 
knew  anything  about  this  in  the  little  English  village 
where  he  was  just '  old  Mr.  Wick'  and  had  forgotten  that 
he  was  a  Companion  of  the  Order  of  the  Star  of  India. 

He  patted  Bobby  on  the  shoulder  and  said :  '  Well  done, 
my  boy!' 

There  followed,  while  the  uniform  was  being  prepared, 
an  interval  of  pure  delight,  during  which  Bobby  took 
brevet-rank  as  a  'man'  at  the  women-swamped  tennis- 
parties  and  tea-fights  of  the  village,  and,  I  daresay,  had  his 

93 


94  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

joining-time  been  extended,  would  have  fallen  in  love  with 
several  girls  at  once.  Little  country  villages  at  Home  are 
very  full  of  nice  girls,  because  all  the  young  men  come  out 
to  India  to  make  their  fortunes. 

'India/  said  Papa  Wick,  'is  the  place.  I've  had  thirty 
years  of  it  and,  begad,  I'd  like  to  go  back  again.  When 
you  join  the  Tail  Twisters  you'll  be  among  friends,  if 
every  one  hasn't  forgotten  Wick  of  Chota-Buldana,  and  a 
lot  of  people  will  be  kind  to  you  for  our  sakes.  The  mother 
will  tell  you  more  about  outfit  than  I  can,  but  remember 
this.  Stick  to  your  Regiment,  Bobby — stick  to  your 
Regiment.  You'll  see  men  all  round  you  going  into  the 
Staff  Corps,  and  doing  every  possible  sort  of  duty  but 
regimental,  and  you  may  be  tempted  to  follow  suit.  Now 
so  long  as  you  keep  within  your  allowance,  and  I  haven't 
stinted  you  there,  stick  to  the  Line,  the  whole  Line  and 
nothing  but  the  Line.  Be  careful  how  you  back  another 
young  fool's  bill,  and  if  you  fall  in  love  with  a  woman 
twenty  years  older  than  yourself,  don't  tell  me  about  it, 
that's  all.' 

With  these  counsels,  and  many  others  equally  valu- 
able, did  Papa  Wick  fortify  Bobby  ere  that  last  awful  night 
at  Portsmouth  when  the  Officers'  Quarters  held  more 
inmates  than  were  provided  for  by  the  Regulations,  and 
the  liberty-men  of  the  ships  fell  foul  of  the  drafts  for 
India,  and  the  battle  raged  from  the  Dockyard  Gates 
even  to  the  slums  of  Longport,  while  the  drabs  of  Fratton 
came  down  and  scratched  the  faces  of  the  Queen's  Officers. 

Bobby  Wick,  with  an  ugly  bruise  on  his  freckled  nose,  a 
sick  and  shaky  detachment  to  manoeuvre  inship  and  the 
comfort  of  fifty  scornful  females  to  attend  to,  had  no 
time  to  feel  homesick  till  the  Malabar  reached  mid- 
Channel,  when  he  doubled  his  emotions  with  a  little 
guard- visiting  and  a  great  many  other  matters. 


ONLY  A  SUBALTERN  95 

The  Tail  Twisters  were  a  most  particular  Regiment. 
Those  who  knew  them  least  said  that  they  were  eaten  up 
with  'side.'  But  their  reserve  and  their  internal  arrange- 
ments generally  were  merely  protective  diplomacy.  Some 
five  years  before,  the  Colonel  commanding  had  looked 
into  the  fourteen  fearless  eyes  of  seven  plump  and  juicy 
subalterns  who  had  all  applied  to  enter  the  Staff  Corps, 
and  had  asked  them  why  the  three  stars  should  he, 
a  colonel  of  the  Line,  command  a  dashed  nursery  for 
double-dashed  bottle-suckers  who  put  on  condemned  tin 
spurs  and  rode  qualified  mokes  at  the  hiatused  heads  of 
forsaken  Black  Regiments.  He  was  a  rude  man  and  a 
terrible.  Wherefore  the  remnant  took  measures  [with  the 
half-butt  as  an  engine  of  public  opinion]  till  the  rumour 
went  abroad  that  young  men  who  used  the  Tail  Twisters 
as  a  crutch  to  the  Staff  Corps,  had  many  and  varied  trials 
to  endure.  However,  a  regiment  had  just  as  much  right 
to  its  own  secrets  as  a  woman. 

When  Bobby  came  up  from  Deolali  and  took  his  place 
among  the  Tail  Twisters,  it  was  gently  but  firmly  borne 
in  upon  him  that  the  Regiment  was  his  father  and  his 
mother  and  his  indissolubly  wedded  wife,  and  that  there 
was  no  crime  under  the  canopy  of  heaven  blacker  than  that 
of  bringing  shame  on  the  Regiment,  which  was  the  best- 
shooting,  best-drilled,  best  set-up,  bravest,  most  illustri- 
ous, and  in  all  respects  most  desirable  Regiment  within  the 
compass  of  the  Seven  Seas.  He  was  taught  the  legends  of 
the  Mess  Plate,  from  the  great  grinning  Golden  Gods  that 
had  come  out  of  the  Summer  Palace  in  Pekin  to  the  silver- 
mounted  markhor-horn  snuff-mull  presented  by  the  last 
C.  O.  [he  who  spake  to  the  seven  subalterns].  And  every 
one  of  those  legends  told  him  of  battles  fought  at  long 
odds,  without  fear  as  without  support;  of  hospitality 
catholic  as  an  Arab's;  of  friendships  deep  as  the  sea  and 


g6  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

steady  as  the  fighting-line;  of  honour  won  by  hard  roads 
for  honour's  sake;  and  of  instant  and  unquestioning  de- 
votion to  the  Regiment — the  Regiment  that  claims  the 
lives  of  all  and  lives  for  ever. 

More  than  once,  too,  he  came  officially  into  contact 
with  the  Regimental  colours,  which  looked  like  the  lining 
of  a  bricklayer's  hat  on  the  end  of  a  chewed  stick.  Bobby 
did  not  kneel  and  worship  them,  because  British  sub- 
alterns are  not  constructed  in  that  manner.  Indeed,  he 
condemned  them  for  their  weight  at  the  very  moment 
that  they  were  filling  with  awe  and  other  more  noble 
sentiments. 

But  best  of  all  was  the  occasion  when  he  moved  with 
the  Tail  Twisters  in  review  order  at  the  breaking  of  a 
November  day.  Allowing  for  duty-men  and  sick,  the 
Regiment  was  one  thousand  and  eighty  strong,  and 
Bobby  belonged  to  them;  for  was  he  not  a  Subaltern  of 
the  Line — the  whole  Line  and  nothing  but  the  Line— as 
the  tramp  of  two  thousand  one  hundred  and  sixty  sturdy 
ammunition  boots  attested?  He  would  not  have  changed 
places  with  Deighton  of  the  Horse  Battery,  whirling  by  in 
a  pillar  of  cloud  to  a  chorus  of  'Strong  right!  Strong 
left!'  or  Hogan-Yale  of  the  White  Hussars,  leading  his 
squadron  for  all  it  was  worth,  with  the  price  of  horseshoes 
thrown  in;  or  'Tick'  Boileau,  trying  to  live  up  to  his  fierce 
blue  and  gold  turban  while  the  wasps  of  the  Bengal 
Cavalry  stretched  to  a  gallop  in  the  wake  of  the  long, 
lollopping  Walers  of  the  White  Hussars. 

They  fought  through  the  clear  cool  day,  and  Bobby 
felt  a  little  thrill  run  down  his  spine  when  he  heard  the 
tinkle-tinkle-tinkle  of  the  empty  cartridge-cases  hopping 
from  the  breech-locks  after  the  roar  of  the  volleys;  for  he 
knew  that  he  should  live  to  hear  that  sound  in  action. 
The  review  ended  in  a  glorious  chase  across  the  plain — 


ONLY  A  SUBALTERN  g> 

batteries  thundering  after  cavalry  to  the  huge  disgust  of 
the  White  Hussars,  and  the  Tyneside  Tail  Twisters 
hunting  a  Sikh  Regiment,  till  the  lean  lathy  Singhs  panted 
with  exhaustion.  Bobby  was  dusty  and  dripping  long 
before  noon,  but  his  enthusiasm  was  merely  focused — not 
diminished. 

He  returned  to  sit  at  the  feet  of  Revere,  his  'skipper/ 
that  is  to  say,  the  Captain  of  his  Company,  and  to  be  in- 
structed in  the  dark  art  and  mystery  of  managing  men, 
which  is  a  very  large  part  of  the  Profession  of  Arms. 

'If  you  haven't  a  taste  that  way/  said  Revere  between 
his  puffs  of  his  cheroot,  'you'll  never  be  able  to  get  the 
hang  of  it,  but  remember,  Bobby,  'tisn't  the  best  drill, 
though  drill  is  nearly  everything,  that  hauls  a  Regiment 
through  Hell  and  out  on  the  other  side.  It's  the  man 
Who  knows  how  to  handle  men — goat-men,  swine-men, 
dog-men,  and  so  on.' 

'Dormer,  for  instance,'  said  Bobby,  'I  think  he  comes 
under  the  head  of  fool-men.  He  mopes  like  a  sick  owl.* 

'That's  where  you  make  your  mistake,  my  son. 
Dormer  isn't  a  fool  yet,  but  he's  a  dashed  dirty  soldier,  and 
his  room  corporal  makes  fun  of  his  socks  before  kit-in- 
spection. Dormer,  being  two-thirds  pure  brute,  goes 
into  a  corner  and  growls.' 

'How  do  you  know? '  said  Bobby  admiringly. 

'Because  a  Company  commander  has  to  know  these 
things — because,  if  he  does  not  know,  he  may  have  crime 
— ay,  murder — brewing  under  his  very  nose  and  yet  not 
see  that  it's  there.  Dormer  is  being  badgered  out  of  his 
mind — big  as  he  is — and  he  hasn't  intellect  enough  to 
resent  it.  He's  taken  to  quiet  boozing  and,  Bobby,  when 
the  butt  of  a  room  goes  on  the  drink,  or  takes  to  moping 
by  himself,  measures  are  necessary  to  pull  him  out  of 
himself.' 


98  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

'What  measures?  'Man  can't  run  round  coddling  his 
men  for  ever.' 

'No.  The  men  would  precious  soon  show  him  that  he 
was  not  wanted.  You've  got  to — 

Here  the  Colour-sergeant  entered  with  some  papers; 
Bobby  reflected  for  a  while  as  Revere  looked  through  the 
Company  forms. 

'Does  Dormer  do  anything,  Sergeant?'  Bobby  asked 
with  the  air  of  one  continuing  an  interrupted  conversa- 
tion. 

'No,  sir.  Does  'is  dooty  like  a  hortomato,'  said  the 
Sergeant,  who  delighted  in  long  words.  'A  dirty  soldier, 
and  'e's  under  full  stoppages  for  new  kit.  It's  covered 
with  scales,  sir.' 

'  Scales?    What  scales? ' 

'Fish-scales,  sir.  'E's  always  pokin'  in  the  mud  by 
the  river  an'  a-cleanin'  them  muchly-fish  with  'is  thumbs.' 
Revere  was  still  absorbed  in  the  Company  papers,  and 
the  Sergeant,  who  was  sternly  fond  of  Bobby,  continued, 

•'  'E  generally  goes  down  there  when  'e's  got  'is  skinful, 
beggin'  your  pardon,  sir,  an'  they  do  say  that  the  more 
lush — in-fo-briated  'e  is,  the  more  fish  'e  catches.  They 
call  'im  the  Looney  Fishmonger  in  the  Comp'ny,  sir.' 

Revere  signed  the  last  paper  and  the  Sergeant  re- 
treated. 

'It's  a  filthy  amusement/  sighed  Bobby  to  himself. 
Then  aloud  to  Revere:  'Are  you  really  worried  about 
Dormer? ' 

'A  little.  You  see  he's  never  mad  enough  to  send  to 
hospital,  or  drunk  enough  to  run  in,  but  at  any  minute  he 
may  flare  up,  brooding  and  sulking  as  he  does.  He 
resents  any  interest  being  shown  in  him,  and  the  only 
time  I  took  him  out  shooting  he  all  but  shot  me  by 
accident.' 


ONLY  A  SUBALTERN  99 

'I  fish,'  said  Bobby  with  a  wry  face.  'I  hire  a  country- 
boat  and  go  down  the  river  from  Thursday  to  Sunday, 
and  the  amiable  Dormer  goes  with  me — if  you  can  spare 
us  both. ' 

'You  blazing  young  fool!'  said  Revere,  but  his  heart 
was  full  of  much  more  pleasant  words. 

Bobby,  the  Captain  of  a  dhoni,  with  Private  Dormer 
for  mate,  dropped  down  the  river  on  Thursday  morning — 
the  Private  at  the  bow,  the  Subaltern  at  the  helm.  The 
Private  glared  uneasily  at  the  Subaltern,  who  respected 
the  reserve  of  the  Private. 

After  six  hours,  Dormer  paced  to  the  stern,  saluted,  and 
said — '  Beg  y'  pardon,  sir,  but  was  you  ever  on  the  Durh'm 
Canal?' 

'No,'  said  Bobby  Wick.     'Come  and  have  some  tiffin.' 

They  ate  in  silence.  As  the  evening  fell,  private 
Dormer  broke  forth,  speaking  to  himself — 

'Hi  was  on  the  Durh'm  Canal,  jes'  such  a  night, 
come  next  week  twelve  month,  a-trailin'  of  my  toes  in 
the  water.'  He  smoked  and  said  no  more  till  bedtime. 

The  witchery  of  the  dawn  turned  the  gray  river- 
reaches  to  purple,  gold,  and  opal;  and  it  was  as  though 
the  lumbering  dhoni  crept  across  the  splendours  of  a  new 
heaven. 

Private  Dormer  popped  his  head  out  of  his  blanket 
and  gazed  at  the  glory  below  and  around. 

'Well — damn — my  eyes!'  said  Private  Dormer  in  an 
awed  whisper.  'This  'ere  is  like  a  bloomin'  gallantry- 
show!'  For  the  rest  of  the  day  he  was  dumb,  but 
achieved  an  ensanguined  filthiness  through  the  cleaning 
of  big  fish. 

The  boat  returned  on  Saturday  evening.  Dormer 
had  been  struggling  with  speech  since  noon.  As  the  lines 
and  luggage  were  being  disembarked,  he  found  tongue. 


ioo  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

'Beg  y  paraon,  sir/  he  said,  'but  would  you — would 
you  min'  shakin'  'ands  with  me,  sir? ' 

'Of  course  not,'  said  Bobby,  and  he  shook  accord- 
ingly. Dormer  returned  to  barracks  and  Bobby  to  mess. 

'He  wanted  a  little  quiet  and  some  fishing,  I  think/ 
said  Bobby.  'My  aunt,  but  he's  a  filthy  sort  of  ani- 
mal! Have  you  ever  seen  him  clean  "them,  muchly- 
fish  with  'is  thumbs"?' 

'Anyhow/  said  Revere  three  weeks  later,  'he's  doing 
his  best  to  keep  his  things  clean.' 

When  the  spring  died,  Bobby  joined  in  the  general 
scramble  for  Hill  leave,  and  to  his  surprise  and  delight 
secured  three  months. 

'As  good  a  boy  as  I  want/  said  Revere  the  admiring 
skipper. 

'The  best  of  the  batch/  said  the  Adjutant  to  the 
Colonel.  'Keep  back  that  young  skrimshanker  Por- 
kiss,  sir,  and  let  Revere  make  him  sit  up.' 

So  Bobby  departed  joyously  to  Simla  Pahar  with  a 
tin  box  of  gorgeous  raiment. 

"Son  of  Wick— old  Wick  of  Chota-Buldana?  Ask 
Joim  to  dinner,  dear/  said  the  aged  men. 

'What  a  nice  boy!'  said  the  matrons  and  the  maids. 

'  First-class  place,  Simla.  Oh,  ri — ipping ! '  said  Bobby 
Wick,  and  ordered  new  white  cord  breeches  on  the 
strength  of  it. 

'We're  in  a  bad  way/  wrote  Revere  to  Bobby  at  the 
end  of  two  months.  'Since  you  left,  the  Regiment 
has  taken  to  fever  and  is  fairly  rotten  with  it — two 
hundred  in  hospital,  about  a  hundred  in  cells — drinking 
to  keep  off  fever — and  the  Companies  on  parade  fifteen 
file  strong  at  the  outside.  There's  rather  more  sickness 
in  the  out-villages  than  I  care  for,  but  then  I'm  so  blis- 
tered with  prickly  heat  that  I'm  ready  to  hang  myself. 


ONLY  A  SUBALTERN  101 

What's  the  yarn  about  your  mashing  a  Miss  Haverley 
up  there?  Not  serious,  I  hope?  You're  over-young 
to  hang  millstones  round  your  neck,  and  the  Colonel  will 
turf  you  out  of  that  in  double-quick  time  if  you  at- 
tempt it.' 

It  was  not  the  Colonel  that  brought  Bobby  out  of 
Simla,  but  a  much  more  to  be  respected  Commandant. 
The  sickness  in  the  out-villages  spread,  the  Bazar  was 
put  out  of  bounds,  and  then  came  the  news  that  the 
Tail  Twisters  must  go  into  camp.  The  message  flashed 
to  the  Hill  stations. — 'Cholera — Leave  stopped — Offi- 
cers recalled.'  Alas,  for  the  white  gloves  in  the  neatly 
soldered  boxes,  the  rides  and  the  dances  and  picnics  that 
were  to  be,  the  loves  half  spoken,  and  the  debts  unpaid! 
Without  demur  and  without  question,  fast  as  tonga 
could  fly  or  pony  gallop,  back  to  their  Regiments  and 
their  Batteries,  as  though  they  were  hastening  to  their 
weddings,  fled  the  subalterns. 

Bobby  received  his  orders  on  returning  from  a  dance 
at  Viceregal  Lodge  where  he  had but  only  the  Haver- 
ley  girl  knows  what  Bobby  had  said  or  how  many  waltzes 
he  had  claimed  for  the  next  ball.  Six  in  the  morning  saw 
Bobby  at  the  Tonga  Office  in  the  drenching  rain,  the 
whirl  of  the  last  waltz  still  in  his  ears,  and  an  intoxication 
due  neither  to  wine  nor  waltzing  in  his  brain. 

'Good  man!'  shouted  Deighton  of  the  Horse  Battery 
through  the  mists.  'Whar  you  raise  dat  tonga?  I'm 
coming  with  you.  Ow!  But  I've  a  head  and  half.  / 
didn't  sit  out  all  night.  They  say  the  Battery's  awful 
bad,'  and  he  hummed  dolorously — 

'Leave  the  what  at  the  what's-its-name, 
Leave  the  flock  without  shelter, 
Leave  the  corpse  uninterred, 
Leave  the  bride  at  the  altar! 


102  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

'My  faith!  It'll  be  more  bally  corpse  than  bride, 
though,  this  journey.  Jump  in,  Bobby.  Get  on, 
Coachwan!' 

On  the  Umballa  platform  waited  a  detachment  of 
officers  discussing  the  latest  news  from  the  stricken 
cantonment,  and  it  was  here  that  Bobby  learned  the 
real  condition  of  the  Tail  Twisters. 

'They  went  into  camp/  said  an  elderly  Major  recalled 
from  the  whist-tables  at  Mussoorie  to  a  sickly  Native 
Regiment,  'they  went  into  camp  with  two  hundred  and 
ten  sick  in  carts.  Two  hundred  and  ten  fever  cases 
only,  and  the  balance  looking  like  so  many  ghosts  with 
sore  eyes.  A  Madras  Regiment  could  have  walked 
through  'em.' 

'But  they  were  as  fit  as  be-damned  when  I  left  them!' 
said  Bobby. 

'Then  you'd  better  make  them  as  fit  as  be-damned 
when  you  rejoin,'  said  the  Major  brutally. 

Bobby  pressed  his  forehead  against  the  rain-splashed 
window  pane  as  the  train  lumbered  across  the  sodden 
Doab,  and  prayed  for  the  health  of  the  Tyneside  Tail 
Twisters.  Naini  Tal  had  sent  down  her  contingent 
with  all  speed;  the  lathering  ponies  of  the  Dalhousie 
Road  staggered  into  Pathankot,  taxed  to  the  full  stretch 
of  their  strength;  while  from  cloudy  Darjiling  the  Cal- 
cutta Mail  whirled  up  the  last  straggler  of  the  little  army 
that  was  to  fight  a  fight,  in  which  was  neither  medal 
nor  honour  for  the  winning,  against  an  enemy  none 
other  than  'the  sickness  that  destroyeth  in  the  noon- 
day.' 

And  as  each  man  reported  himself,  he  said:  'This 
is  a  bad  business,'  and  went  about  his  own  forthwith, 
for  every  Regiment  and  Battery  in  the  cantonment  was 
under  canvas,  the  sickness  bearing  them  company. 


ONLY  A  SUBALTERN  103 

Bobby  fought  his  way  through  the  rain  to  the  Tail 
Twisters'  temporary  mess,  and  Revere  could  have  fallen 
on  the  boy's  neck  for  the  joy  of  seeing  that  ugly,  whole- 
some phiz  once  more. 

'Keep  'em  amused  and  interested,'  said  Revere. 
1  They  went  on  the  drink,  poor  fools,  after  the  first  two 
cases,  and  there  was  no  improvement.  Oh,  it's  good  to 
have  you  back,  Bobby!  Porkiss  is  a — never  mind.' 

Deighton  came  over  from  the  Artillery  camp  to  attend 
a  dreary  mess  dinner,  and  contributed  to  the  general 
gloom  by  nearly  weeping  over  the  condition  of  his  be- 
loved Battery.  Porkiss  so  far  forgot  himself  as  to  in- 
sinuate that  the  presence  of  the  officers  could  do  no 
earthly  good,  and  that  the  best  thing  would  be  to  send 
the  entire  Regiment  into  hospital  and  'let  the  doctors 
look  after  them.'  Porkiss  was  demoralised  with  fear, 
nor  was  his  peace  of  mind  restored  when  Revere  said 
coldly :  '  Oh !  The  sooner  you  go  out  the  better,  if  that's 
your  way  of  thinking.  Any  public  school  could  send  us 
fifty  good  men  in  your  place,  but  it  takes  time,  time, 
Porkiss,  and  money,  and  a  certain  amount  of  trouble, 
to  make  a  Regiment.  'S'pose  you're  the  person  we  go 
into  camp  for,  eh? ' 

Whereupon  Porkiss  was  overtaken  with  a  great  and 
chilly  fear  which  a  drenching  in  the  rain  did  not  allay, 
and,  two  days  later,  quitted  this  world  for  another 
where,  men  do  fondly  hope,  allowances  are  made  for 
the  weaknesses  of  the  flesh.  The  Regimental  Sergeant- 
Major  looked  wearily  across  the  Sergeants'  Mess  tent 
when  the  news  was  announced. 

'There  goes  the  worst  of  them,'  he  said.  'It'll  take 
the  best,  and  then,  please  God,  it'll  stop.'  The  Ser- 
geants were  silent  till  one  said:  'It  couldn't  be  himT 
and  all  knew  of  whom  Travis  was  thinking. 


104  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Bobby  Wick  stormed  through  the  tents  of  his  Com- 
pany, rallying,  rebuking,  mildly,  as  is  consistent  with 
the  Regulations,  chaffing  the  faint-hearted;  haling  the 
sound  into  the  watery  sunlight  when  there  was  a  break 
in  the  weather,  and  bidding  them  be  of  good  cheer  for 
their  trouble  was  nearly  at  an  end;  scuttling  on  his 
dun  pony  round  the  outskirts  of  the  camp  and  heading 
back  men  who,  with  the  innate  perversity  of  British 
soldiers,  were  always  wandering  into  infected  villages, 
or  drinking  deeply  from  rain-flooded  marshes;  com- 
forting the  panic-stricken  with  rude  speech,  and  more 
than  once  tending  the  dying  who  had  no  friends — the 
men  without  'townies';  organising,  with  banjos  and 
burnt  cork,  Sing-songs  which  should  allow  the  talent  of 
the  Regiment  full  play;  and  generally,  as  he  explained, 
'playing  the  giddy  garden-goat  all  round.' 

'You're  worth  half  a  dozen  of  us,  Bobby,'  said  Revere 
in  a  moment  of  enthusiasm.  'How  the  devil  do  you 
keep  it  up? ' 

Bobby  made  no  answer,  but  had  Revere  looked  into 
the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat  he  might  have  seen  there 
a  sheaf  of  badly-written  letters  which  perhaps  accounted 
for  the  power  that  possessed  the  boy.  A  letter  came 
to  Bobby  every  other  day.  The  spelling  was  not  above 
reproach,  but  the  sentiments  must  have  been  most  sat- 
isfactory, for  on  receipt  Bobby's  eyes  softened  marvel- 
lously, and  he  was  wont  to  fall  into  a  tender  abstraction 
for  a  while  ere,  shaking  his  cropped  head,  he  charged  into 
his  work. 

By  what  power  he  drew  after  him  the  hearts  of  the 
roughest,  and  the  Tail  Twisters  counted  in  their  ranks 
some  rough  diamonds  indeed,  was  a  mystery  to 
both  skipper  and  C.  O.,  who  learned  from  the  regi- 
mental chaplain  that  Bobby  was  considerably  more  in 


ONLY  A  SUBALTERN  105 

request  in  the  hospital  tents  than  the  Reverend  John 
Emery. 

'The  men  seem  fond  of  you.  Are  you  in  the  hos- 
pitals much? '  said  the  Colonel,  who  did  his  daily  round 
and  ordered  the  men  to  get  well  with  a  hardness  that 
did  not  cover  his  bitter  grief. 

'A  little,  sir,'  said  Bobby. 

1  'Shouldn't  go  there  too  often  if  I  were  you.  They 
say  it's  not  contagious,  but  there's  no  use  in  running 
unnecessary  risks.  We  can't  afford  to  have  you  down, 
y'know.' 

Six  days  later,  it  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  that 
the  post-runner  plashed  his  way  out  to  the  camp  with 
the  mail-bags,  for  the  rain  was  falling  in  torrents.  Bobby 
received  a  letter,  bore  it  off  to  his  tent,  and,  the  pro- 
gramme for  the  next  week's  Sing-song  being  satisfactorily 
disposed  of,  sat  down  to  answer  it.  For  an  hour  the  un- 
handy pen  toiled  over  the  paper,  and  where  sentiment 
rose  to  more  than  normal  tide-level,  Bobby  Wick  stuck 
out  his  tongue  and  breathed  heavily.  He  was  not  used 
to  letter-writing. 

'Beg  y'  pardon,  sir/  said  a  voice  at  the  tent  door; 
'  but  Dormer's  'orrid  bad,  sir,  an'  they've  taken  him  orf , 
sir.' 

'Damn  Private  Dormer  and  you  too!'  said  Bobby 
Wick,  running  the  blotter  over  the  half-finished  letter. 
'Tell  him  I'll  come  in  the  morning.' 

'  'E's  awful  bad,  sir,'  said  the  voice  hesitatingly.  There 
was  an  undecided  squelching  of  heavy  boots. 

'Well?'  said  Bobby  impatiently. 

'Excusin'  'imself  before'and  for  takin'  the  liberty,  'e 
says  it  would  be  a  comfort  for  to  assist  'im,  sir,  if— 

''Tattoo  loo  I  Get  my  pony!  Here,  come  in  out  of 
the  rain  till  I'm  ready.  What  blasted  nuisances  you 


io6  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

are!  That's  brandy.  Drink  some;  you  want  it.  Hang 
on  to  my  stirrup  and  tell  me  if  I  go  too  fast.' 

Strengthened  by  a  four-finger  'nip'  which  he  swal- 
lowed without  a  wink,  the  Hospital  Orderly  kept  up  with 
the  slipping,  mud-stained,  and  very  disgusted  pony  as  it 
shambled  to  the  hospital  tent. 

Private  Dormer  was  certainly  '  'orrid  bad/  He 
had  all  but  reached  the  stage  of  collapse  and  was  not 
pleasant  to  look  upon. 

'What's  this,  Dormer?'  said  Bobby,  bending  over  the 
man.  'You're  not  going  out  this  time.  You've  got  to 
come  fishing  with  me  once  or  twice  more  yet.' 

The  blue  lips  parted  and  in  the  ghost  of  a  whisper 
said, — 'Beg  y'  pardon,  sir,  disturbin'  of  you  now,  but 
would  you  min'  'oldin'  my  'and,  sir? ' 

Bobby  sat  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  the  icy  cold  hand 
closed  on  his  own  like  a  vice,  forcing  a  lady's  ring  which 
was  on  the  little  finger  deep  into  the  flesh.  Bobby  set  his 
lips  and  waited,  the  water  dripping  from  the  hem  of  his 
trousers.  An  hour  passed  and  the  grasp  of  the  hand  did 
not  relax,  nor  did  the  expression  of  the  drawn  face  change. 
Bobby  with  infinite  craft  lit  himself  a  cheroot  with  the 
left  hand,  his  right  arm  was  numbed  to  the  elbow,  and 
resigned  himself  to  a  night  of  pain. 

Dawn  showed  a  very  white-faced  Subaltern  sitting  on 
the  side  of  a  sick  man's  cot,  and  a  Doctor  in  the  doorway 
using  language  unfit  for  publication. 

'Have  you  been  here  all  night,  you  young  ass? '  said  the 
Doctor. 

'There  or  thereabouts,'  said  Bobby  ruefully.  'He's 
frozen  on  to  me.' 

Dormer's  mouth  shut  with  a  click.  He  turned  his 
head  and  sighed.  The  clinging  hand  opened,  and  Bobby's 
arm  fell  useless  at  his  side. 


ONLY  A  SUBALTERN  107 

'  He'll  do,'  said  the  Doctor  quietly.  '  It  must  have  been 
a  toss-up  all  through  the  night.  'Think  you're  to  be  con- 
gratulated on  this  case/ 

'  Oh,  bosh ! '  said  Bobby.  '  I  thought  the  man  had  gone 
out  long  ago — only — only  I  didn't  care  to  take  my  hand 
away.  Rub  my  arm  down,  there's  a  good  chap.  What  a 
grip  the  brute  has!  I'm  chilled  to  the  marrow!'  He 
passed  out  of  the  tent  shivering. 

Private  Dormer  was  allowed  to  celebrate  his  repulse  of 
Death  by  strong  waters.  Four  days  later,  he  sat  on  the 
side  of  his  cot  and  said  to  the  patients  mildly :  '  I'd  'a'  liken 
to  'a'  spoken  to  'im — so  I  should.' 

But  at  that  time  Bobby  was  reading  yet  another  letter 
— he  had  the  most  persistent  correspondent  of  any  man  in 
camp — and  was  even  then  about  to  write  that  the  sick- 
ness had  abated,  and  in  another  week  at  the  outside 
would  be  gone.  He  did  not  intend  to  say  that  the  chill  of 
a  sick  man's  hand  seemed  to  have  struck  into  the  heart 
whose  capacities  for  affection  he  dwelt  on  at  such  length. 
He  didintend  to  enclose  the  illustrated  programme  of  the 
forthcoming  Sing-song  whereof  he  was  not  a  little  proud. 
He  also  intended  to  write  on  many  other  matters  which 
do  not  concern  us,  and  doubtless  would  have  done  so  but 
for  the  slight  feverish  headache  which  made  him  dull  and 
unresponsive  at  mess. 

'You  are  overdoing  it,  Bobby/  said  his  skipper. 
'  'Might  give  the  rest  of  us  credit  of  doing  a  little  work. 
You  go  on  as  if  you  were  the  whole  Mess  rolled  into  one. 
Take  it  easy.' 

'I  will,'  said  Bobby.  'I'm  feeling  done  up,  some- 
how.' Revere  looked  at  him  anxiously  and  said  noth- 
ing. 

There  was  a  flickering  of  lanterns  about  the  camp  that 
night,  and  a  rumour  that  brought  men  out  of  their  cots  to 


io8  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

the  tent  doors,  a  paddling  of  the  naked  feet  of  doolie- 
bearers  and  the  rush  of  a  galloping  horse. 

'Wot's  up?'  asked  twenty  tents;  and  through  twenty 
tents  ran  the  answer — '  Wick,  'e's  down.' 

They  brought  the  news  to  Revere  and  he  groaned. 
' Any  one  but  Bobby  and  I  shouldn't  have  cared!  The 
Sergeant-Ma jor  was  right.' 

'Not  going  out  this  journey,'  gasped  Bobby,  as  he  was 
lifted  from  the  doolie.  'Not  going  out  this  journey.' 
Then  with  an  air  of  supreme  conviction — 'I  can't,  you 
see.' 

'Not  if  I  can  do  anything!'  said  the  Surgeon-Major, 
who  had  hastened  over  from  the  mess  where  he  had  been 
dining. 

He  and  the  Regimental  Surgeon  fought  together  with 
Death  for  the  life  of  Bobby  Wick.  Their  work  was  in- 
terrupted by  a  hairy  apparition  in  a  blue-gray  dressing- 
gown  who  stared  in  horror  at  the  bed  and  cried — '  Oh,  my 
Gawd!  It  can't  be  'im!'  until  an  indignant  Hospital 
Orderly  whisked  him  away. 

If  care  of  man  and  desire  to  live  could  have  done  aught, 
Bobby  would  have  been  saved.  As  it  was,  he  made  a  fight 
of  three  days,  and  the  Surgeon-Major's  brow  uncreased. 
'We'll  save  him  yet,'  he  said;  and  the  Surgeon,  who, 
though  he  ranked  with  the  Captain,  had  a  very  youthful 
heart,  went  out  upon  the  word  and  pranced  joyously  in 
the  mud. 

'  Not  going  out  this  journey/  whispered  Bobby  Wick 
gallantly,  at  the  end  of  the  third  day. 

'Bravo ! '  said  the  Surgeon-Major.  'That's  the  way  to 
look  at  it,  Bobby.' 

As  evening  fell  a  gray  shade  gathered  round  Bobby's 
mouth,  and  he  turned  his  face  to  the  tent  wall  wearily. 
The  Surgeon-Major  frowned. 


ONLY  A  SUBALTERN  109 

'  I'm  awfully  tired,'  said  Bobby,  very  faintly.  '  What's 
the  use  of  bothering  me  with  medicine?  I — don't — 
want — it.  Let  me  alone. ' 

The  desire  for  life  had  departed,  and  Bobby  was  con- 
tent to  drift  away  on  the  easy  tide  of  Death. 

'It's  no  good,'  said  the  Surgeon-Major.  'He  doesn't 
want  to  live.  He's  meeting  it,  poor  child.'  And  he  blew 
his  nose. 

Half  a  mile  away  the  regimental  band  was  playing  the 
overture  to  the  Sing-song,  for  the  men  had  been  told  that 
Bobby  was  out  of  danger.  The  clash  of  the  brass  and  the 
wail  of  the  horns  reached  Bobby's  ears. 

Is  there  a  single  joy  or  pain, 
That  I  should  never  kno — ow? 
You  do  not  love  me,  'tis  in  vain, 
Bid  me  good-bye  and  go! 

An  expression  of  hopeless  irritation  crossed  the  boy's 
tace,  and  he  tried  to  shake  his  head. 

The  Surgeon-Major  bent  down — '  What  is  it?  Bobby? ' 
-'Not  that  waltz/  muttered  Bobby.  'That's  our  own 
— our  very  ownest.  .  .  .  Mummy  dear.' 

With  this  he  sank  into  the  stupor  that  gave  place  to 
death  early  next  morning. 

Revere,  his  eyes  red  at  the  rims  and  his  nose  very  white, 
went  into  Bobby's  tent  to  write  a  letter  to  Papa  Wick 
which  should  bow  the  white  head  of  the  ex-Commissioner 
of  Chota-Buldana  in  the  keenest  sorrow  of  his  life. 
Bobby's  little  store  of  papers  lay  in  confusion  on  the 
table,  and  among  them  a  half-finished  letter.  The  last 
sentence  ran:  'So  you  see,  darling,  there  is  really  no  fear, 
because  as  long  as  I  know  you  care  for  me  and  I  care  for 
you,  nothing  can  touch  me.' 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


Revere  stayed  in  the  tent  for  an  hour.    When  he  came 
out,  his  eyes  were  redder  than  ever. 


Private  Conklin  sat  on  a  turned-down  bucket,  and 
listened  to  a  not  unfamiliar  tune.  Private  Conklin  was  a 
convalescent  and  should  have  been  tenderly  treated. 

'  Ho  1 '  said  Private  Conklin.  '  There 's  another  bloomin' 
orf 'cer  da — ed.' 

The  bucket  shot  from  under  him  and  his  eyes  filled  with 
a  smithyful  of  sparks.  A  tall  man  in  a  blue-gray  bed- 
gown was  regarding  him  with  deep  disfavour. 

'  You  ought  to  take  shame  to  yourself,  Conky !  Orf 'cer? 
— bloomin'  orf 'cer?  I'll  learn  you  to  misname  the  likes  cf 
'im.  Hangel!  Bloomin' Hangel!  That's . wot 'e is!' 

And  the  Hospital  Orderly  was  so  satisfied  with  the 
justice  of  the  punishment  that  he  did  not  even  order 
Private  Dormer  back  to  his  cot. 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

May  no  ill  dreams  disturb  my  rest, 
Nor  Powers  of  Darkness  me  molest. 

Evening  Hymn. 

ONE  of  the  few  advantages  that  India  has  over  England  is 
a  great  Knowability.  After  five  years'  service  a  man  is 
directly  or  indirectly  acquainted  with  the  two  or  three 
hundred  Civilians  in  his  Province,  all  the  Messes  of  ten 
or  twelve  Regiments  and  Batteries,  and  some  fifteen  hun- 
dred other  people  of  the  non-official  caste.  In  ten  years  his 
knowledge  should  be  doubled,  and  at  the  end  of  twenty 
years  he  knows,  or  knows  something  about,  every  English- 
man in  the  Empire,  and  may  travel  anywhere  and  every- 
where without  paying  hotel-bills. 

Globe-trotters  who  expect  entertainment  as  a  right, 
have,  even  within  my  memory,  blunted  this  open-heart- 
edness,  but  none  the  less  to-day,  if  you  belong  to  the 
Inner  Circle  and  are  neither  a  Bear  nor  a  Black  Sheep,  all 
houses  are  open  to  you,  and  our  small  world  is  very,  very 
kind  and  helpful. 

Rickett  of  Kamartha  stayed  with  Polder  of  Kumaon 
some  fifteen  years  ago.  He  meant  to  stay  two  nights,  but 
was  knocked  down  by  rheumatic  fever,  and  for  six  weeks 
disorganised  Polder's  establishment,  stopped  Polder's 
work,  and  nearly  died  in  Polder's  bedroom.  Polder  be- 
haves as  though  he  had  been  placed  under  eternal  ob- 
ligation by  Rickett,  and  yearly  sends  the  little  Ricketts  a 
of  presents  and  toys.  It  is  the  same  everywhere, 
in 


ii2  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

The  men  who  do  not  take  the  trouble  to  conceal  from  you 
their  opinion  that  you  are  an  incompetent  ass,  and  the 
women  who  blacken  your  character  and  misunderstand 
your  wife's  amusements,  will  work  themselves  to  the  bone 
in  your  behalf  if  you  fall  sick  or  into  serious  trouble. 

Heatherlegh,  the  Doctor,  kept,  in  addition  to  his  regular 
practice,  a  hospital  on  his  private  account — an  arrange- 
ment of  loose  boxes  for  Incurables,  his  friend  called  it  — 
but  it  was  really  a  sort  of  fitting-up  shed  for  craft  that  had 
been  damaged  by  stress  of  weather.  The  weather  in 
India  is  often  sultry,  and  since  the  tale  of  bricks  is  always 
a  fixed  quantity,  and  the  only  liberty  allowed  is  permis- 
sion to  work  overtime  and  get  no  thanks,  men  occasion- 
ally break  down  and  become  as  mixed  as  the  metaphors  in 
this  sentence. 

Heatherlegh  is  the  dearest  doctor  that  ever  was,  and 
his  invariable  prescription  to  all  his  patients  is,  'Lie  low, 
go  slow,  and  keep  cool.'  He  says  that  more  men  are 
killed  by  overwork  than  the  importance  of  this  world 
justifies.  He  maintains  that  overwork  slew  Pansay,  who 
died  under  his  hands  about  three  years  ago.  He  has,  of 
course,  the  right  to  speak  authoritatively,  and  he  laughs 
at  my  theory  that  there  was  a  crack  in  Pansay's  head  and 
a  little  bit  of  the  Dark  World  came  through  and  pressed 
him  to  death.  '  Pansay  went  off  the  handle/  says  Heath- 
erlegh, 'after  the  stimulus  of  long  leave  at  Home.  He 
may  or  he  may  not  have  behaved  like  a  blackguard  to 
Mrs.  Keith- Wessington.  My  notion  is  that  the  work  of 
the  Katabundi  Settlement  ran  him  off  his  legs,  and  that 
he  took  to  brooding  and  making  much  of  an  ordinary  P. 
&  O.  flirtation.  He  certainly  was  engaged  to  Miss 
Mannering,  and  she  certainly  broke  off  the  engagement. 
Then  he  took  a  feverish  chill  and  all  that  nonsense  about 
ghosts  developed.  Overwork  started  his  illness,  kept  it 


THE  PHANTOM   'RICKSHAW  113 

alight,  and  killed  him,  poor  devil.  Write  him  off  to  the 
System  that  uses  one  man  to  do  the  work  of  two  and  a 
half  men.' 

I  do  not  believe  this.  I  used  to  sit  up  with  Pansay  some- 
times when  Heatherlegh  was  called  out  to  patients  and  I 
happened  to  be  within  claim.  The  man  would  make  me 
most  unhappy  by  describing  in  a  low,  even  voice,  the  pro- 
cession that  was  always  passing  at  the  bottom  of  his  bed. 
He  had  a  sick  man's  command  of  language.  When  he  re- 
covered I  suggested  that  he  should  write  out  the  whole 
affair  from  beginning  to  end,  knowing  that  ink  might 
assist  him  to  ease  his  mind. 

He  was  in  a  high  fever  while  he  was  writing,  and  the 
blood-and-thunder  Magazine  diction  he  adopted  did  not 
calm  him.  Two  months  afterwards  he  was  reported  fit  for 
duty,  but,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was  urgently  needed 
to  help  an  undermanned  Commission  stagger  through  a 
deficit,  he  preferred  to  die;  vowing  at  the  last  that  he 
was  hag-ridden.  I  got  his  manuscript  before  he  died,  and 
this  is  his  version  of  the  affair,  dated  1885,  exactly  as  he 
wrote  it : — 

My  doctor  tells  me  that  I  need  rest  and  change  of 
air.  It  is  not  improbable  that  I  shall  get  both  ere 
long — rest  that  neither  the  red-coated  messenger  nor 
the  mid-day  gun  can  break,  and  change  of  air  far  beyond 
that  which  any  homeward-bound  steamer  can  give  me. 
In  the  meantime  I  am  resolved  to  stay  where  I  am;  and, 
in  flat  defiance  of  my  doctor's  orders,  to  take  all  the  world 
into  my  confidence.  You  shall  learn  for  yourselves  the 
precise  nature  of  my  malady,  and  shall,  too,  judge  for 
yourselves  whether  any  man  born  of  woman  on  this 
weary  earth  was  ever  so  tormented  as  I. 

Speaking  now  as  a  condemned  criminal  might  speak 
ere  the  drop-bolts  are  drawn,  my  story,  wild  and  hide- 


H4  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

ously  improbable  as  it  may  appear,  demands  at  least 
attention.  That  it  will  ever  receive  credence  I  utterly 
disbelieve.  Two  months  ago  I  should  have  scouted 
as  mad  or  drunk  the  man  who  had  dared  tell  me  the 
like.  Two  months  ago  I  was  the  happiest  man  in  India. 
To-day,  from  Peshawar  to  the  sea,  there  is  no  one  more 
wretched.  My  doctor  and  I  are  the  only  two  who  know 
this.  His  explanation  is,  that  my  brain,  digestion,  and 
eyesight  are  all  slightly  affected;  giving  rise  to  my  fre- 
quent and  persistent  'delusions.'  Delusions,  indeed!  I 
call  him  a  fool;  but  he  attends  me  still  with  the  same  un- 
wearied smile,  the  same  bland  professional  manner,  the 
same  neatly-trimmed  red  whiskers,  till  I  begin  to  suspect 
that  I  am  an  ungrateful,  evil-tempered  invalid.  But 
you  shall  judge  for  yourselves. 

Three  years  ago  it  was  my  fortune — my  great  mis- 
fortune— to  sail  from  Gravesend  to  Bombay,  on  return 
from  long  leave,  with  one  Agnes  Keith-Wessington,  wife 
of  an  officer  on  the  Bombay  side.  It  does  not  in  the  least 
concern  you  to  know  what  manner  of  woman  she  was. 
Be  content  with  the  knowledge  that,  ere  the  voyage  had 
ended,  both  she  and  I  were  desperately  and  unreasoningly 
in  love  with  one  another.  Heaven  knows  that  I  can 
make  the  admission  now  without  one  particle  of  vanity. 
In  matters  of  this  sort  there  is  always  one  who  gives 
and  another  who  accepts.  From  the  first  day  of  .our 
ill-omened  attachment,  I  was  conscious  that  Agnes's 
passion  was  a  stronger,  a  more  dominant,  and — if  I 
may  use  the  expression — a  purer  sentiment  than  mine. 
Whether  she  recognised  the  fact  then,  I  do  not  know. 
Afterwards  it  was  bitterly  plain  to  both  of  us. 

Arrived  at  Bombay  in  the  spring  of  the  year,  we 
went  our  respective  ways,  to  meet  no  more  for  the 
next  three  or  four  months,  when  my  leave  and  her  love 


THE  PHANTOM   'RICKSHAW  115 

took  us  both  to  Simla.  There  we  spent  the  season  to- 
gether; and  there  my  fire  of  straw  burnt  itself  out  to  a 
pitiful  end  with  the  closing  year.  I  attempt  no  excuse. 
I  make  no  apology.  Mrs.  Wessington  had  given  up 
much  for  my  sake,  and  was  prepared  to  give  up  all. 
From  my  own  lips,  in  August,  1882,  she  learnt  that  I  was 
sick  of  her  presence,  tired  of  her  company,  and  weary  of 
the  sound  of  her  voice.  Ninety-nine  women  out  of  a 
hundred  would  wearied  of  me  as  I  wearied  of  them; 
seventy-five  of  that  number  would  have  promptly  avenged 
themselves  by  active  and  obtrusive  flirtation  with  other 
men.  Mrs.  Wessington  was  the  hundredth.  On  her 
neither  my  openly-expressed  aversion  nor  the  cutting 
brutalities  with  which  I  garnished  our  interviews  had  the 
least  effect. 

'Jack,  darling!'  was  her  one  eternal  cuckoo  cry: 
'I'm  sure  it's  all  a  mistake — a  hideous  mistake;  and 
we'll  be  good  friends  again  some  day.  Please  forgive 
me,  Jack,  dear.' 

I  was  the  offender,  and  I  knew  it.  That  knowledge 
transformed  my  pity  into  passive  endurance,  and,  even- 
tually, into  blind  hate — the  same  instinct,  I  suppose, 
which  prompts  a  man  to  savagely  stamp  on  the  spider 
he  has  but  half  killed.  And  with  this  hate  in  my  bosom 
the  season  of  1882  came  to  an  end. 

Next  year  we  met  again  at  Simla — she  with  her  monoto- 
nous face  and  timid  attempts  at  reconciliation,  and  I 
with  loathing  of  her  in  every  fibre  of  my  frame.  Several 
times  I  could  not  avoid  meeting  her  alone;  and  on  each 
occasion  her  words  were  identically  the  same.  Still  the 
unreasoning  wail  that  it  was  all  a  'mistake';  and  still  the 
hope  of  eventually  'making  friends.'  I  might  have  seen, 
had  I  cared  to  look,  that  that  hope  only  was  keeping  her 
alive.  She  grew  more  wan  and  thin  month  by  month. 


n6  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

You  will  agree  with  me,  at  least,  that  such  conduct  would 
have  driven  any  one  to  despair.  It  was  uncalled  for; 
childish;  unwomanly.  I  maintain  that  she  was  much  to 
blame.  And  again,  sometimes,  in  the  black,  fever- 
stricken  night-watches,  I  have  begun  to  think  that  I 
might  have  been  a  little  kinder  to  her.  But  that  really 
is  a  l  delusion.'  I  could  not  have  continued  pretending 
to  love  her  when  I  didn't;  could  I?  It  would  have  been 
unfair  to  us  both. 

Last  year  we  met  again — on  the  same  terms  as  before. 
The  same  weary  appeals,  and  the  same  curt  answers 
from  my  lips.  At  least  I  would  make  her  see  how  wholly 
wrong  and  hopeless  were  her  attempts  at  resuming  the 
old  relationship.  As  the  season  wore  on,  we  fell  apart — 
that  is  to  say,  she  found  it  difficult  to  meet  me,  for  I 
had  other  and  more  absorbing  interests  to  attend  to. 
When  I  think  it  over  quietly  in  my  sick-room,  the  season 
of  1884  seems  a  confused  nightmare  wherein  light  and 
shade  were  fantastically  intermingled — my  courtship 
of  little  Kitty  Mannering;  my  hopes,  doubts,  and  fears; 
our  long  rides  together;  my  trembling  avowal  of  at- 
tachment; her  reply;  and  now  and  again  a  vision  of  a 
white  face  flitting  by  in  the  'rickshaw  with  the  black 
and  white  liveries  I  once  watched  for  so  earnestly;  the 
wave  of  Mrs.  Wessington's  gloved  hand;  and,  when  she 
met  me  alone,  which  was  but  seldom,  the  irksome  mo- 
notony of  her  appeal.  I  loved  Kitty  Mannering;  honestly, 
heartily  loved  her,  and  with  my  love  for  her  grew  my 
hatred  for  Agnes.  In  August  Kitty  and  I  were  en- 
gaged. The  next  day  I  met  those  accursed  'mag-pie' 
jhampanies  at  the  back  of  Jakko,  and,  moved  by  some 
passing  sentiment  of  pity,  stopped  to  tell  Mrs.  Wessing- 
ton  everything.  She  knew  it  already. 

'So  I  hear  you're  engaged,  Jack  dear.'    Then,  with- 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW  117 

out  a  moment's  pause:  'I'm  sure  it's  all  a  mistake — a 
hideous  mistake.  We  shall  be  as  good  friends  some 
day,  Jack,  as  we  ever  were.' 

My  answer  might  have  made  even  a  man  wince.  It 
cut  the  dying  woman  before  me  like  the  blow  of  a  whip. 
'Please  forgive  me,  Jack;  I  didn't  mean  to  make  you 
angry;  but  it's  true,  it's  true!' 

And  Mrs.  Wessington  broke  down  completely.  I 
turned  away  and  left  her  to  finish  her  journey  in  peace, 
feeling,  but  only  for  a  moment  or  two,  that  I  had  been 
an  unutterably  mean  hound.  I  looked  back,  and  saw 
that  she  had  turned  her  'rickshaw  with  the  idea,  I  sup- 
pose, of  overtaking  me. 

The  scene  and  its  surroundings  were  photographed 
on  my  memory.  The  rain-swept  sky  (we  were  at  the 
end  of  the  wet  weather),  the  sodden,  dingy  pines,  the 
muddy  road,  and  the  black  powder-riven  cliffs  formed 
a  gloomy  background  against  which  the  black  and  white 
liveries  of  ihejhampanies,  the  yellow-panelled  'rickshaw 
and  Mrs.  Wessington's  down-bowed  golden  head  stood 
out  clearly.  She  was  holding  her  handkerchief  in  her 
left  hand  and  was  leaning  back  exhausted  against  the 
'rickshaw  cushions.  I  turned  my  horse  up  a  bypath 
near  the  Sanjowlie  Reservoir  and  literally  ran  away. 
Once  I  fancied  I  heard  a  faint  call  of  'Jack!'  This  may 
have  been  imagination.  I  never  stopped  to  verify  it. 
Ten  minutes  later  I  came  across  Kitty  on  horseback;  and, 
in  the  delight  of  a  long  ride  with  her,  forgot  all  about  the 
interview. 

A  week  later  Mrs.  Wessington  died,  and  the  inex- 
pressible burden  of  her  existence  was  removed  from  my 
life.  I  went  Plainsward  perfectly  happy.  Before  three 
months  were  over  I  had  forgotten  all  about  her,  except 
that  at  times  the  discovery  of  some  of  her  old  letters 


n»  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

reminded  me  unpleasantly  of  our  bygone  relationship. 
By  January  I  had  disinterred  what  was  left  of  our 
correspondence  from  among  my  scattered  belongings 
and  had  burnt  it.  At  the  beginning  of  April  of  this 
year,  1885,  I  was  at  Simla — semi-deserted  Simla — 
once  more,  and  was  deep  in  lover's  talks  and  walks  with 
Kitty.  It  was  decided  that  we  should  be  married  at 
the  end  of  June.  You  will  understand,  therefore,  that, 
loving  Kitty  as  I  did,  I  am  not  saying  too  much  when 
I  pronounce  myself  to  have  been,  at  that  time,  the  hap- 
piest man  in  India. 

Fourteen  delightful  days  passed  almost  before  I 
noticed  their  flight.  Then,  aroused  to  the  sense  of 
what  was  proper  among  mortals  circumstanced  as  we 
were,  I  pointed  out  to  Kitty  that  an  engagement  ring 
was  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  her  dignity  as  an  en- 
gaged girl;  and  that  she  must  forthwith  come  to  Ham- 
ilton's to  be  measured  for  one.  Up  to  that  moment,  I 
give  you  my  word,  we  had  completely  forgotten  so 
trivial  a  matter.  To  Hamilton's  we  accordingly  went 
on  the  1 5th  of  April,  1885.  Remember  that — whatever 
my  doctor  may  say  to  the  contrary — I  was  then  in  per- 
fect health,  enjoying  a  well-balanced  mind  and  an  abso- 
lutely tranquil  spirit.  Kitty  and  I  entered  Hamilton's 
shop  together,  and  there,  regardless  of  the  order  of  af- 
fairs, I  measured  Kitty  for  the  ring  in  the  presence  of  the 
amused  assistant.  The  ring  was  a  sapphire  with  two 
diamonds.  We  then  rode  out  down  the  slope  that  leads 
to  the  Combermere  Bridge  and  Peliti's  shop. 

While  my  Waler  was  cautiously  feeling  his  way  over 
the  loose  shale,  and  Kitty  was  laughing  and  chattering 
at  my  side — while  all  Simla,  that  is  to  say  as  much  of 
it  as  had  then  come  from  the  Plains,  was  grouped  round 
the  Reading-room  and  Peliti's  veranda, — I  was  aware 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW  119 

that  some  one,  apparently  at  a  vast  distance,  was  call- 
ing me  by  my  Christian  name.  It  struck  me  that  I 
had  heard  the  voice  before,  but  when  and  where  I  could 
not  at  once  determine.  In  the  short  space  it  took  to 
cover  the  road  between  the  path  from  Hamilton's  shop 
and  the  first  plank  of  the  Combermere  Bridge  I  had 
thought  over  half  a  dozen  people  who  might  have  com- 
mitted such  a  solecism,  and  had  eventually  decided  that 
it  must  have  been  some  singing  in  my  ears.  Immedi- 
ately opposite  Peliti's  shop  my  eye  was  arrested  by  the 
sight  of  four  jhampanies  in  'mag-pie'  livery,  pulling  a 
yellow-panelled,  cheap,  bazar  'rickshaw.  In  a  moment 
my  mind  flew  back  to  the  previous  season  and  Mrs. 
Wessington  with  a  sense  of  irritation  and  disgust.  Was 
it  not  enough  that  the  woman  was  dead  and  done  with, 
without  her  black  and  white  servitors  reappearing  to 
spoil  the  day's  happiness?  Whoever  employed  them 
now  I  thought  I  would  call  upon,  and  ask  as  a  personal 
favour  to  change  her  jhampanies'  livery.  I  would  hire 
the  men  myself,  and,  if  necessary,  buy  their  coats  from 
off  their  backs.  It  is  impossible  to  say  here  what  a 
flood  of  undesirable  memories  their  presence  evoked. 

1  Kitty,'  I  cried,  'there  are  poor  Mrs.  Wessington's 
jhampanies  turned  up  again!  I  wonder  who  has  them 
now?' 

Kitty  had  known  Mrs.  Wessington  slightly  last  sea- 
son, and  had  always  been  interested  in  the  sickly  woman. 

'What?  Where?'  she  asked.  'I  can't  see  them  any- 
where.' 

Even  as  she  spoke,  her  horse,  swerving  from  a  laden 
mule,  threw  himself  directly  in  front  of  the  advancing 
'rickshaw.  I  had  scarcely  time  to  utter  a  word  of  warn- 
ing when  to  my  unutterable  horror,  horse  and  rider  passed 
through  men  and  carriage  as  if  they  had  been  thin  air. 


W  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

'What's  the  matter?'  cried  Kitty;  'what  made  you 
call  out  so  foolishly,  Jack?  If  I  am  engaged  I  don't 
want  all  creation  to  know  about  it.  There  was  lots  of 
space  between  the  mule  and  the  veranda;  and,  if  you 
think  I  can't  ride There!' 

Whereupon  wilful  Kitty  set  off,  her  dainty  little 
head  in  the  air,  at  a  hand-gallop  in  the  direction  of  the 
Band-stand;  fully  expecting,  as  she  herself  afterwards 
told  me,  that  I  should  follow  her.  What  was  the  matter? 
Nothing  indeed.  Either  that  I  was  mad  or  drunk,  or 
that  Simla  was  haunted  with  devils.  I  reined  in  my 
impatient  cob,  and  turned  round.  The  'rickshaw  had 
turned  too,  and  now  stood  immediately  facing  me,  near 
the  left  railing  of  the  Combermere  Bridge. 

'Jack!  Jack,  darling!'  (There  was  no  mistake 
about  the  words  this  time:  they  rang  through  my  brain 
as  if  they  had  been  shouted  in  my  ear.)  '  It's  some  hide- 
ous mistake,  I'm  sure.  Please  forgive  me,  Jack,  and  let's 
be  friends  again.' 

The  'rickshaw-hood  had  fallen  back,  and  inside,  as  I 
hope  and  pray  daily  for  the  death  I  dread  by  night, 
sat  Mrs.  Keith- Wessington,  handkerchief  in  hand,  and 
golden  head  bowed  on  her  breast. 

How  long  I  stared  motionless  I  do  not  know.  Finally, 
I  was  aroused  by  my  syce  taking  the  Waler's  bridle  and 
asking  whether  I  was  ill.  From  the  horrible  to  the  com- 
monplace is  but  a  step.  I  tumbled  off  my  horse  and 
dashed,  half  fainting,  into  Peliti's  for  a  glass  of  cherry- 
brandy.  There  two  or  three  couples  were  gathered 
round  the  coffee-tables  discussing  the  gossip  of  the  day. 
Their  trivialities  were  more  comforting  to  me  just  then 
than  the  consolations  of  religion  could  have  been.  I 
plunged  into  the  midst  of  the  conversation  at  once; 
chatted,  laughed,  and  jested  with  a  face  (when  I  caught 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW  121 

a  glimpse  of  it  in  a  mirror)  as  white  and  drawn  as  that  of 
a  corpse.  Three  or  four  men  noticed  my  condition;  and, 
evidently  setting  it  down  to  the  results  of  over-many 
pegs,  charitably  endeavoured  to  draw  me  apart  from  the 
rest  of  the  loungers.  But  I  refused  to  be  led  away.  I 
wanted  the  company  of  my  kind — as  a  child  rushes  into 
the  midst  of  the  dinner-party  after  a  fright  in  the  dark.  I 
must  have  talked  for  about  ten  minutes  or  so,  though  it 
seemed  an  eternity  to  me,  when  I  heard  Kitty's  clear  voice 
outside  enquiring  for  me.  In  another  minute  she  had 
entered  the  shop,  prepared  to  upbraid  me  for  failing  so 
signally  in  my  duties.  Something  in  my  face  stopped  her. 

'Why,  Jack,'  she  cried,  'what  have  you  been  doing? 
What  has  happened?  Are  you  ill?'  Thus  driven  into  a 
direct  lie,  I  said  that  the  sun  had  been  a  little  too  much 
for  me.  It  was  close  upon  five  o'clock  of  a  cloudy  April 
afternoon,  and  the  sun  had  been  hidden  all  day.  I  saw  my 
mistake  as  soon  as  the  words  were  out  of  my  mouth:  at- 
tempted to  recover  it;  blundered  hopelessly  and  followed 
Kitty,  in  a  regal  rage,  out  of  doors,  amid  the  smiles  of  my 
acquaintances.  I  made  some  excuse  (I  have  forgotten 
what)  on  the  score  of  my  feeling  faint;  and  cantered  away 
to  my  hotel,  leaving  Kitty  to  finish  the  ride  by  herself. 

In  my  room  I  sat  down  and  tried  calmly  to  reason  out 
the  matter.  Here  was  I,  Theobald  Jack  Pansay,  a  well- 
educated  Bengal  Civilian  in  the  year  of  grace  1885,  pre- 
sumably sane,  certainly  healthy,  driven  in  terror  from  my 
sweetheart's  side  by  the  apparition  of  a  woman  who  had 
been  dead  and  buried  eight  months  ago.  These  were 
facts  that  I  could  not  blink.  Nothing  was  further  from 
my  thought  than  any  memory  of  Mrs.  Wessington  when 
Kitty  and  I  left  Hamilton's  shop.  Nothing  was  more 
utterly  commonplace  than  the  stretch  of  wall  opposite 
Peliti's.  It  was  broad  daylight.  The  road  was  full  of 


122  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

people;  and  yet  here,  look  you,  in  defiance  of  every  law  of 
probability,  in  direct  outrage  of  Nature's  ordinance,  there 
had  appeared  to  me  a  face  from  the  grave. 

Kitty's  Arab  had  gone  through  the  'rickshaw:  so  that  my 
first  hope  that  some  woman  marvellously  like  Mrs.  Wes- 
sington  had  hired  the  carriage  and  the  coolies  with  their 
old  livery  was  lost.  Again  and  again  I  went  round  this 
treadmill  of  thought;  and  again  and  again  gave  up  baffled 
and  in  despair.  The  voice  was  as  inexplicable  as  the  ap- 
parition. I  had  originally  some  wild  notion  of  confiding  it 
all  to  Kitty;  of  begging  her  to  marry  me  at  once;  and  in 
her  arms  defying  the  ghostly  occupant  of  the  'rickshaw. 
' After  all,'  I  argued,  'the  presence  of  the  'rickshaw  is  in 
itself  enough  to  prove  the  existence  of  a  spectral  illusion. 
One  may  see  ghosts  of  men  and  women,  but  surely  never 
coolies  and  carriages.  The  whole  thing  is  absurd.  Fancy 
the  ghost  of  a  hillman! ' 

Next  morning  I  sent  a  penitentnote  to  Kitty,  imploring 
her  to  overlook  my  strange  conduct  of  the  previous  after- 
noon. My  Divinity  was  still  very  wroth,  and  a  personal 
apology  was  necessary.  I  explained,  with  a  fluency  born 
of  night-long  pondering  over  a  falsehood,  that  I  had  been 
attacked  with  a  sudden  palpitation  of  the  heart — the  re- 
sult of  indigestion.  This  eminently  practical  solution 
had  its  effect:  and  Kitty  and  I  rode  out  that  afternoon 
with  the  shadow  of  my  first  lie  dividing  us. 

Nothing  would  please  her  save  a  canter  round  Jakko. 
With  my  nerves  still  unstrung  from  the  previous  night  I 
feebly  protested  against  the  notion,  suggesting  Observa- 
tory Hill,  Jutogh,  the  Boileaugunge  road — anything 
rather  than  the  Jakko  round.  Kitty  was  angry  and  a  lit- 
tle hurt;  so  I  yielded  from  fear  of  provoking  further  mis- 
understanding, and  we  set  out  together  towards  Chota 
Simla.  We  walked  a  greater  part  of  the  way,  and,  accord- 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW  123 

ing  to  our  custom,  cantered  from  a  mile  or  so  below  the 
Convent  to  the  stretch  of  level  road  by  the  Sanjowlie  Res- 
ervoir. The  wretched  horses  appeared  to  fly,  and  my 
heart  beat  quicker  and  quicker  as  we  neared  the  crest  of 
the  ascent.  My  mind  had  been  full  of  Mrs.  Wessington  all 
the  afternoon;  and  every  inch  of  the  Jakko  road  bore 
witness  to  our  old-time  walks  and  talks.  The  bowlders 
were  full  of  it;  the  pines  sang  it  aloud  overhead;  the  rain- 
fed  torrents  giggled  and  chuckled  unseen  over  the  shame- 
ful story;  and  the  wind  in  my  ears  chanted  the  iniquity 
aloud. 

As  a  fitting  climax,  in  the  middle  of  the  level  men  call 
the  Ladies'  Mile  the  Horror  was  awaiting  me.  No  other 
'rickshaw  was  in  sight — only  the  four  black  and  white 
jhampanies,  the  yellow-panelled  carriage,  and  the  golden 
head  of  the  woman  within — all  apparently  just  as  I  had 
left  them  eight  months  and  one  fortnight  ago!  For  an 
instant  I  fancied  that  Kitty  must  see  what  I  saw — we 
were  so  marvellously  sympathetic  in  all  things.  Her 
next  words  undeceived  me — '  Not  a  soul  in  sight!  Come 
along,  Jack,  and  I'll  race  you  to  the  Reservoir  buildings!' 
Her  wiry  little  Arab  was  off  like  a  bird,  my  Waler  follow- 
ing close  behind,  and  in  this  order  we  dashed  under  the 
cliffs.  Half  a  minute  brought  us  within  fifty  yards  of  the 
'rickshaw.  I  pulled  my  Waler  and  fell  back  a  little.  The 
'rickshaw  was  directly  in  the  middle  of  the  road;  and  once 
more  the  Arab  passed  through  it,  my  horse  following. 
'  Jack !  Jack,  dear !  Please  forgive  me, '  rang  with'a  wail  in 
my  ears,  and,  after  an  interval:  'It's  all  a  mistake,  a 
hideous  mistake ! ' 

I  spurred  my  horse  like  a  man  possessed.  When  I 
turned  my  head  at  the  Reservoir  works,  the  black  and 
white  liveries  were  still  waiting — patiently  waiting — under 
the  gray  hillside,  and  the  wind  brought  me  a  mocking  echo 


124  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

of  the  words  I  had  just  heard.  Kitty  bantered  me  a  good 
deal  on  my  silence  throughout  the  remainder  of  the  ride. 
I  had  been  talking  up  till  then  wildly  and  at  random.  To 
save  my  life  I  could  not  speak  afterwards  naturally,  and 
from  Sanjowlie  to  the  Church  wisely  held  my  tongue. 

I  was  to  dine  with  the  Mannerings  that  night,  and  had 
barely  time  to  canter  home  to  dress.  On  the  road  to 
Elysium  Hill  I  overheard  two  men  talking  together  in  the 
dusk. — 'It's  a  curious  thing,'  said  one,  'how  com- 
pletely all  trace  of  it  disappeared.  You  know  my  wife  was 
insanely  fond  of  the  woman  (never  could  see  anything 
in  her  myself),  and  wanted  me  to  pick  up  her  old  'rick- 
shaw and  coolies  if  they  were  to  be  got  for  love  or  money. 
Morbid  sort  of  fancy  I  call  it;  but  I've  got  to  do  what  the 
Memsahib  tells  me.  Would  you  believe  that  the  man  she 
hired  it  from  tells  me  that  all  four  of  the  men — they  were 
brothers — died  of  cholera  on  the  way  to  Hardwar,  poor 
devils;  and  the  'rickshaw  has  been  broken  up  by  the  man 
himself.  'Told  me  he  never  used  a  dead  Memsahib' s 
'rickshaw.  'Spoilt  his  luck.  Queer  notion,  wasn't  it? 
Fancy  poor  little  Mrs.  Wessington  spoiling  any  one's  luck 
except  her  own!'  I  laughed  aloud  at  this  point;  and  my 
laugh  jarred  on  me  as  I  uttered  it.  So  there  were  ghosts 
of  'rickshaws  after  all,  and  ghostly  employments  in  the 
other  world!  How  much  did  Mrs.  Wessington  give  her 
men?  What  were  their  hours?  Where  did  they  go? 

And  for  visible  answer  to  my  last  question  I  saw  the  in- 
fernal Thing  blocking  my  path  in  the  twilight.  The  dead 
travel  fast,  and  by  short  cuts  unknown  to  ordinary  coolies. 
I  laughed  aloud  a  second  time  and  checked  my  laughter 
suddenly,  for  I  was  afraid  I  was  going  mad.  Mad  to  a 
certain  extent  I  must  have  been,  for  I  recollect  that  I 
reined  in  my  horse  at  the  head  of  the  'rickshaw,  and 
politely  wished  Mrs.  Wessington  '  Good-evening.'  Her 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW  12$ 

answer  was  one  I  knew  only  too  well.  I  listened  to  the 
end;  and  replied  that  I  had  heard  it  all  before,  but  should 
be  delighted  if  she  had  anything  further  to  say.  Some 
malignant  devil  stronger  than  I  must  have  entered  into 
me  that  evening,  for  I  have  a  dim  recollection  of  talking 
the  commonplaces  of  the  day  for  five  minutes  to  the 
Thing  in  front  of  me. 

'  Mad  as  a  hatter,  poor  devil — or  drunk.  Max,  try  and 
get  him  to  come  home.' 

Surely  that  was  not  Mrs.  Wessington's  voice!  The  two 
men  had  overheard  me  speaking  to  the  empty  air,  and  had 
returned  to  look  after  me.  They  were  very  kind  and  con- 
siderate, and  from  their  words  evidently  gathered  that  I 
was  extremely  drunk.  I  thanked  them  confusedly  and 
cantered  away  to  my  hotel,  there  changed,  and  arrived  at 
the  Mannerings'  ten  minutes  late.  I  pleaded  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night  as  an  excuse;  was  rebuked  by  Kitty  for 
my  unlover-like  tardiness;  and  sat  down. 

The  conversation  had  already  become  general;  and 
under  cover  of  it,  I  was  addressing  some  tender  small  talk 
to  my  sweetheart  when  I  was  aware  that  at  the  further 
end  of  the  table  a  short  red-whiskered  man  was  describ- 
ing, with  much  broidery,  his  encounter  with  a  mad  un- 
known that  evening. 

A  few  sentences  convinced  me  that  he  was  repeating 
the  incident  of  half  an  hour  ago.  In  the  middle  of  the 
story  he  looked  round  for  applause,  as  professional  story- 
tellers do,  caught  my  eye,  and  straightway  collapsed. 
There  was  a  moment's  awkward  silence,  and  the  red- 
whiskered  man  muttered  something  to  the  effect  that  he 
had  'forgotten  the  rest,'  thereby  sacrificing  a  reputation 
as  a  good  story-teller  which  he  had  built  up  for  six  seasons 
past.  I  blessed  him  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  and — 
went  on  with  my  fish. 


126  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

In  the  fulness  of  time  that  dinner  came  to  an  end;  and 
with  genuine  regret  I  tore  myself  away  from  Kitty — as 
certain  as  I  was  of  my  own  existence  that  It  would  be 
waiting  for  me  outside  the  door.  The  red-whiskered  man, 
who  had  been  introduced  to  me  as  Dr.  Heatherlegh  of 
Simla,  volunteered  to  bear  me  company  as  far  as  our  roads 
lay  together.  I  accepted  his  offer  with  gratitude. 

My  instinct  had  not  deceived  me.  It  lay  in  readiness 
in  the  Mall,  and,  in  what  seemed  devilish  mockery  of  our 
ways,  with  a  lighted  head-lamp.  The  red- whiskered  man 
went  to  the  point  at  once,  in  a  manner  that  showed  he 
had  been  thinking  over  it  all  dinner-time. 

'I  say,  Pansay,  what  the  deuce  was  the  matter  with  you 
this  evening  on  the  Elysium  Road? '  The  suddenness  of 
the  question  wrenched  an  answer  from  me  before  I  was 
sware. 

'That!'  said  I,  pointing  to  It. 

'  That  may  be  either  D.  T.  or  Eyes  for  aught  I  know. 
Now  you  don't  liquor.  I  saw  as  much  at  dinner,  so  it 
can't  be  D.  T.  There's  nothing  whatever  where  you're 
pointing,  though  you're  sweating  and  trembling  with 
fright,  like  a  scared  pony.  Therefore,  I  conclude  that  it's 
Eyes.  And  I  ought  to  understand  all  about  them. 
Come  along  home  with  me.  I'm  on  the  Blessington 
lower  road.' 

To  my  intense  delight  the  'rickshaw  instead  of  waiting 
for  us  kept  about  twenty  yards  ahead — and  this,  too, 
whether  we  walked,  trotted,  or  cantered.  In  the  course 
of  that  long  night  ride  I  had  told  my  companion  almost 
as  much  as  I  have  told  you  here. 

'Well,  you've  spoilt  one  of  the  best  tales  I've  ever  laid 
tongue  to,'  said  he,  'but  I'll  forgive  you  for  the  sake  of 
what  you've  gone  through.  Now  come  home  and  do 
what  I  tell  you;  and  when  I've  cured  you,  young  man,  let 


THE  PHANTOM   'RICKSHAW  127 

this  be  a  lesson  to  you  to  steer  clear  of  women  and  in- 
digestible food  till  the  day  of  your  death.' 

The  'rickshaw  kept  steady  in  front;  and  my  red- 
whiskered  friend  seemed  to  derive  great  pleasure  from  my 
account  of  its  exact  whereabouts. 

'Eyes,  Pansay — all  Eyes,  Brain,  and  Stomach.  And 
the  greatest  of  these  is  Stomach.  You've  too  much 
conceited  Brain,  too  little  Stomach,  and  thoroughly  un- 
healthy eyes.  Get  your  Stomach  straight  and  the  rest 
follows.  And  all  that's  French  for  a  liver  pill.  I'll 
take  sole  medical  charge  of  you  from  this  hour!  for  you're 
too  interesting  a  phenomenon  to  be  passed  over.' 

By  this  time  we  were  deep  in  the  shadow  of  the  Bless- 
ington  lower  road  and  the  'rickshaw  came  to  a  dead  stop 
under  a  pine-clad,  overhanging  shale  cliff.  Instinctively 
I  halted  too,  giving  my  reason.  Heatherlegh  rapped  out 
an  oath. 

'Now,  if  you  think  I'm  going  to  spend  a  cold  night  on 
the  hillside  for  the  sake  of  a  Stomach-cww-Brain-cww- 
Eye  illusion —  Lord,  ha'  mercy!  What's  that? ' 

There  was  a  muffled  report,  a  blinding  smother  ol 
dust  just  in  front  of  us,  a  crack,  the  noise  of  rent  boughs, 
and  about  ten  yards  of  the  cliff-side — pines,  undergrowth, 
and  all — slid  down  into  the  road  below,  completely  block- 
ing it  up.  The  uprooted  trees  swayed  and  tottered  for 
a  moment  like  drunken  giants  in  the  gloom,  and  then  fell 
prone  among  their  fellows  with  a  thunderous  crash. 
Our  two  horses  stood  motionless  and  sweating  with  fear. 
As  soon  as  the  rattle  of  falling  earth  and  stone  had  sub- 
sided, my  companion  muttered :  '  Man,  if  we'd  gone  for- 
ward we  should  have  been  ten  feet  deep  in  our  graves  by 
now.  "There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth." 
.  .  .  Come  home,  Pansay,  and  thank  God.  I  want 
S  peg  badly.' 


128  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

We  retraced  our  way  over  the  Church  Ridge,  and  I 
arrived  at  Dr.  Heatherlegh's  house  shortly  after  midnight. 

His  attempts  towards  my  cure  commenced  almost  im- 
mediately, and  for  a  week  I  never  left  his  sight.  Many 
a  time  in  the  course  of  that  week  did  I  bless  the  good- 
fortune  which  had  thrown  me  in  contact  with  Simla's 
best  and  kindest  doctor.  Day  by  day  my  spirits  grew 
lighter  and  more  equable.  Day  by  day,  too,  I  became 
more  and  more  inclined  to  fall  in  with  Heatherlegh's 
'spectral  illusion'  theory,  implicating  eyes,  brain,  and 
stomach.  I  wrote  to  Kitty,  telling  her  that  a  slight 
sprain  caused  by  a  fall  from  my  horse  kept  me  indoors 
for  a  few  days;  and  that  I  should  be  recovered  before 
she  had  time  to  regret  my  absence. 

Heatherlegh's  treatment  was  simple  to  a  degree.  It 
consisted  of  liver  pills,  cold-water  baths,  and  strong 
exercise,  taken  in  the  dusk  or  at  early  dawn — for,  as 
he  sagely  observed:  'A  man  with  a  sprained  ankle 
doesn't  walk  a  dozen  miles  a  day,  and  your  young  wo- 
man might  be  wondering  if  she  saw  you.' 

At  the  end  of  the  week,  after  much  examination  of 
pupil  and  pulse,  and  strict  injunctions  as  to  diet  and 
pedestrianism,  Heatherlegh  dismissed  me  as  brusquely 
as  he  had  taken  charge  of  me.  Here  is  his  parting 
benediction:  'Man,  I  certify  to  your  mental  cure,  and 
that's  as  much  as  to  say  I've  cured  most  of  your  bodily 
ailments.  Now,  get  your  traps  out  of  this  as  soon  as 
you  can;  and  be  off  to  make  love  to  Miss  Kitty.' 

I  was  endeavouring  to  express  my  thanks  for  his 
kindness.  He  cut  me  short. 

'Don't  think  I  did  this  because  I  like  you.  I  gather 
that  you've  behaved  like  a  blackguard  all  through. 
But,  all  the  same,  you're  a  phenomenon,  and  as  queer  a 
phenomenon  as  you  are  a  blackguard.  No!' — check- 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW  129 

ing  me  a  second  time — 'not  a  rupee,  please.  Go  out 
and  see  if  you  can  find  the  eyes-brain-and-stomach 
business  again.  I'll  give  you  a  lakh  for  each  time  you 
see  it.' 

Half  an  hour  later  I  was  in  the  Mannerings'  draw- 
ing-room with  Kitty — drunk  with  the  intoxication  of 
present  happiness  and  the  foreknowledge  that  I  should 
never  more  be  troubled  with  Its  hideous  presence. 
Strong  in  the  sense  of  my  new-found  security,  I  proposed 
a  ride  at  once;  and,  by  preference,  a  canter  round  Jakko. 

Never  had  I  felt  so  well,  so  overladen  with  vitality 
and  mere  animal  spirits,  as  I  did  on  the  afternoon  of 
the  3oth  of  April.  Kitty  was  delighted  at  the  change 
in  my  appearance,  and  complimented  me  on  it  in  her 
delightfully  frank  and  outspoken  manner.  We  left 
the  Mannerings'  house  together,  laughing  and  talking, 
and  cantered  along  the  Chota  Simla  road  as  of  old. 

I  was  in  haste  to  reach  the  Sanjowlie  Reservoir  and 
there  make  my  assurance  doubly  sure.  The  horses  did 
their  best,  but  seemed  all  too  slow  to  my  impatient 
mind.  Kitty  was  astonished  at  my  boisterousness. 
'Why,  Jack!'  she  cried  at  last,  'you  are  behaving  like  a 
child.  What  are  you  doing?' 

We  were  just  below  the  Convent,  and  from  sheer 
wantonness  I  was  making  my  Waler  plunge  and  curvet 
across  the  road  as  I  tickled  it  with  the  loop  of  my  riding- 
whip. 

'Doing?'  I  answered;  'nothing,  dear.  That's  just  it. 
If  you'd  been  doing  nothing  for  a  week  except  lie  up, 
you'd  be  as  riotous  as  I. 

'Singing  and  murmuring  in  your  feastful  mirth, 

Joying  to  feel  yourself  alive; 
Lord  over  Nature,  Lord  of  the  visible  Earth, 

Lord  of  the  senses  five.' 


i3o  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

My  quotation  was  hardly  out  of  my  lips  before  we 
had  rounded  the  corner  above  the  Convent;  and  a  few 
yards  further  on  could  see  across  to  Sanjowlie.  In  the 
centre  of  the  level  road  stood  the  black  and  white  liv- 
eries, the  yellow-panelled  'rickshaw,  and  Mrs.  Keith- 
Wessington.  I -pulled  up,  looked,  rubbed  my  eyes,  and, 
I  believe,  must  have  said  something.  The  next  thing 
I  knew  was  that  I  was  lying  face  downward  on  the  road, 
with  Kitty  kneeling  above  me  in  tears. 

'Has  it  gone,  child!'  I  gasped.  Kitty  only  wept  more 
bitterly. 

'Has  what  gone,  Jack  dear?  what  does  it  all  mean? 
There  must  be  a  mistake  somewhere,  Jack.  "A  hideous 
mistake.'  Her  last  words  brought  me  to  my  feet — mad 
— raving  for  the  time  being. 

'Yes,  there  is  a  mistake  somewhere,'  I  repeated,  'a 
hideous  mistake.  Come  and  look  at  It.' 

I  have  an  indistinct  idea  that  I  dragged  Kitty  by 
the  wrist  along  the  road  up  to  where  It  stood,  and  im- 
plored her  for  pity's  sake  to  speak  to  It;  to  tell  It  that 
we  were  betrothed;  that  neither  Death  nor  Hell  could 
break  the  tie  between  us:  and  Kitty  only  knows 
how  much  more  to  the  same  effect.  Now  and  again 
I  appealed  passionately  to  the  Terror  in  the  'rickshaw 
to  bear  witness  to  all  I  had  said,  and  to  release  me 
from  a  torture  that  was  killing  me.  As  I  talked  I  sup- 
pose I  must  have  told  Kitty  of  my  old  relations  with 
Mrs.  Wessington,  for  I  saw  her  listen  intently  with  white 
face  and  blazing  eyes. 

'Thank  you,  Mr.  Pansay,'  she  said,  'that's  quite 
enough.  Syce  ghora  Ido.' 

The  syces,  impassive  as  Orientals  always  are,  had 
come  up  with  the  recaptured  horses;  and  as  Kitty 
sprang  into  her  saddle  I  caught  hold  of  her  bridle,  en- 


THE  PHANTOM   'RICKSHAW  131 

treating  her  to  hear  me  out  and  forgive.  My  answer 
was  the  cut  of  her  riding-whip  across  my  face  from 
mouth  to  eye,  and  a  word  or  two  of  farewell  that  even 
now  I  cannot  write  down.  So  I  judged  and  judged 
rightly,  that  Kitty  knew  all;  and  I  staggered  back 
to  the  side  of  the  'rickshaw.  My  face  was  cut  and 
bleeding,  and  the  blow  of  the  riding-whip  had  raised  a 
livid  blue  wheal  on  it.  I  had  no  self-respect.  Just 
then,  Heatherlegh,  who  must  have  been  following  Kitty 
and  me  at  a  distance,  cantered  up. 

'Doctor/  I  said,  pointing  to  my  face,  'here's  Miss 
Mannering's  signature  to  my  order  of  dismissal  and 

—  I'll  thank  you  for  that  lakh  as  soon  as  convenient.' 

Heatherlegh's  face,  even  in  my  abject  misery,  moved 
me  to  laughter. 

'I'll  stake  my  professional  reputation '  he  began. 

'Don't  be  a  fool,'  I  whispered.  'I've  lost  my  life's 
happiness  and  you'd  better  take  me  home.' 

As  I  spoke  the  'rickshaw  was  gone.  Then  I  lost  all 
knowledge  of  what  was  passing.  The  crest  of  Jakko 
seemed  to  heave  and  roll  like  the  crest  of  a  cloud  and  fall 
in  upon  me. 

Seven  days  later  (on  the  yth  of  May,  that  is  to  say) 
I  was  aware  that  I  was  lying  in  Heatherlegh's  room  as 
weak  as  a  little  child.  Heatherlegh  was  watching  me 
intently  from  behind  the  papers  on  his  writing-table. 
His  first  words  were  not  encouraging;  but  I  was  too  far 
spent  to  be  much  moved  by  them. 

'Here's  Miss  Kitty  has  sent  back  your  letters.  You 
corresponded  a  good  deal,  you  young  people.  Here's  a 
packet  that  looks  like  a  ring,  and  a  cheerful  sort  of  a 
note  from  Mannering  Papa,  which  I've  taken  the  liberty 
of  reading  and  burning.  The  old  gentleman's  not  pleased 
with  you.' 


132  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

'And  Kitty?'  I  asked  dully. 

'Rather  more  drawn  than  her  father  from  what  she 
says.  By  the  same  token  you  must  have  been  letting 
out  any  number  of  queer  reminiscences  just  before  I  met 
you.  'Says  that  a  man  who  would  have  behaved  to  a 
woman  as  you  did  to  Mrs.  Wessington  ought  to  kill 
himself  out  of  sheer  pity  for  his  kind.  She's  a  hot- 
headed little  virago,  your  mash.  'Will  have  it  too  that 
you  were  suffering  from  D.  T.  when  that  row  on  the 
Jakko  road  turned  up.  'Says  she'll  die  before  she  ever 
speaks  to  you  again.' 

I  groaned  and  turned  over  on  the  other  side. 

'Now  you've  got  your  choice,  my  friend.  This 
engagement  has  to  be  broken  off;  and  the  Man- 
nerings  don't  want  to  be  too  hard  on  you.  Was 
it  broken  through  D.  T.  or  epileptic  fits?  Sorry  I 
can't  offer  you  a  better  exchange  unless  you'd  prefer 
hereditary  insanity.  Say  the  word  and  I'll  tell  'em 
it's  fits.  All  Simla  knows  about  that  scene  on  the 
Ladies'  Mile.  Come!  I'll  give  you  five  minutes  to 
think  over  it.' 

During  those  five  minutes  I  believe  that  I  explored 
thoroughly  the  lowest  circles  of  the  Inferno  which  it 
is  permitted  man  to  tread  on  earth.  And  at  the  same 
time  I  myself  was  watching  myself  faltering  through 
the  dark  labyrinths  of  doubt,  misery,  and  utter  despair. 
I  wondered,  as  Heatherlegh  in  his  chair  might  have 
wondered,  which  dreadful  alternative  I  should  adopt. 
Presently  I  heard  myself  answering  in  a  voice  that  I 
hardly  recognised — 

'They're  confoundedly  particular  about  morality  in 
these  parts.  Give  'em  fits,  Heatherlegh,  and  my  love. 
Now  let  me  sleep  a  bit  longer.' 

Then  my  two  selves  joined,  and  it  was  only  I  (half- 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW  133 

crazed,  devil-driven  I)  that  tossed  in  my  bed  tracing  step 
by  step  the  history  of  the  past  month. 

'But  I  am  in  Simla,'  I  kept  repeating  to  myself.  'I, 
Jack  Pansay,  am  in  Simla,  and  there  are  no  ghosts  here. 
It's  unreasonable  of  that  woman  to  pretend  there  are. 
Why  couldn't  Agnes  have  left  me  alone?  I  never  did 
her  any  harm.  It  might  just  as  well  have  been  me  as 
Agnes.  Only  I'd  never  have  come  back  on  purpose  to 
kill  her.  Why  can't  I  be  left  alone — left  alone  and 
happy? ' 

It  was  high  noon  when  I  first  awoke:  and  the  sun 
was  low  in  the  sky  before  I  slept — slept  as  the  tortured 
criminal  sleeps  on  his  rack,  too  worn  to  feel  further 
pain. 

Next  day  I  could  not  leave  my  bed.  Heatherlegh 
told  me  in  the  morning  that  he  had  received  an  answer 
from  Mr.  Mannering,  and  that,  thanks  to  his  (Heather- 
legh's)  friendly  offices,  the  story  of  my  affliction  had 
travelled  through  the  length  and  breadth  of  Simla,  where 
I  was  on  all  sides  much  pitied. 

'And  that's  rather  more  than  you  deserve,'  he  con- 
cluded pleasantly,  '  though  the  Lord  knows  you've  been 
going  through  a  pretty  severe  mill.  Never  mind; 
we'll  cure  you  yet,  you  perverse  phenomenon.' 

I  declined  firmly  to  be  cured.  'You've  been  much 
too  good  to  me  already,  old  man,'  said  I;  'but  I  don't 
think  I  need  trouble  you  further.' 

In  my  heart  I  knew  that  nothing  Heatherlegh  could 
do  would  lighten  the  burden  that  had  been  laid  upon  me. 

With  that  knowledge  came  also  a  sense  of  hopeless, 
impotent  rebellion  against  the  unreasonableness  of  it 
all.  There  were  scores  of  men  no  better  than  I  whose 
punishments  had  at  least  been  reserved  for  another 
world;  and  I  felt  that  it  was  bitterly,  cruelly  unfair  that 


134  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

I  alone  should  have  been  singled  out  for  so  hideous  a 
fate.  This  mood  would  in  time  give  place  to  another 
where  it  seemed  that  the  'rickshaw  and  I  were  the  only 
realities  in  a  world  of  shadows;  that  Kitty  was  a  ghost; 
that  Mannering,  Heatherlegh,  and  all  the  other  men  and 
women  I  knew  were  all  ghosts;  and  the  great,  gray  hills 
themselves  but  vain  shadows  devised  to  torture  me. 
From  mood  to  mood  I  tossed  backwards  and  forwards 
for  seven  weary  days;  my  body  growing  daily  stronger 
and  stronger,  until  the  bedroom  looking-glass  told  me 
that  I  had  returned  to  every-day  life,  and  was  as  other 
men  once  more.  Curiously  enough  my  face  showed  no 
signs  of  the  struggle  I  had  gone  through.  It  was  pale 
indeed,  but  as  expressionless  and  commonplace  as  ever. 
I  had  expected  some  permanent  alteration — visible 
evidence  of  the  disease  that  was  eating  me  away.  I 
found  nothing. 

On  the  1 5th  of  May  I  left  Heatherlegh's  house  at 
eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning;  and  the  instinct  of  the 
bachelor  drove  me  to  the  Club.  There  I  found  that  every 
man  knew  my  story  as  told  by  Heatherlegh,  and  was,  in 
clumsy  fashion,  abnormally  kind  and  attentive.  Never- 
theless I  recognised  that  for  the  rest  of  my  natural  life  I 
should  be  among  but  not  of  my  fellows;  and  I  envied 
very  bitterly  indeed  the  laughing  coolies  on  the  Mall  be- 
low. I  lunched  at  the  Club,  and  at  four  o'clock  wandered 
aimlessly  down  the  Mall  in  the  vague  hope  of  meeting 
Kitty.  Close  to  the  Band-stand  the  black  and  white 
liveries  joined  me;  and  I  heard  Mrs.  Wessington's  old 
appeal  at  my  side.  I  had  been  expecting  this  ever  since 
I  came  out;  and  was  only  surprised  at  her  delay.  The 
phantom  'rickshaw  and  I  went  side  by  side  along  the 
Chota  Simla  road  in  silence.  Close  to  the  bazar,  Kitty 
and  a  man  on  horseback  overtook  and  passed  us.  For 


THE  PHANTOM   'RICKSHAW  135 

any  sign  she  gave  I  might  have  been  a  dog  in  the  road. 
She  did  not  even  pay  me  the  compliment  of  quickening 
her  pace;  though  the  rainy  afternoon  had  served  for  an 
excuse. 

So  Kitty  and  her  companion,  and  I  and  my  ghostly 
Light-o'-Love,  crept  round  Jakko  in  couples.  The  road 
was  streaming  with  water;  the  pines  dripped  like  roof- 
pipes  on  the  rocks  below,  and  the  air  was  full  of  fine, 
driving  rain.  Two  or  three  times  I  found  myself  saying 
to  myself  almost  aloud:  'I'm  Jack  Pansay  on  leave  at 
Simla — at  Simla  !  E  very-day,  ordinary  Simla.  I  mustn't 
forget  that — I  mustn't  forget  that.'  Then  I  would  try  to 
recollect  some  of  the  gossip  I  had  heard  at  the  Club:  the 
prices  of  So-and-So's  horses — anything,  in  fact,  that  re- 
lated to  the  work-a-day  Anglo-Indian  world  I  knew  so 
well.  I  even  repeated  the  multiplication-table  rapidly  to 
myself,  to  make  quite  sure  that  I  was  not  taking  leave  of 
my  senses.  It  gave  me  much  comfort;  and  must  have 
prevented  my  hearing  Mrs.  Wessington  for  a  time. 

Once  more  I  wearily  climbed  the  Convent  slope  and 
entered  the  level  road.  Here  Kitty  and  the  man  started 
off  at  a  canter,  and  I  was  left  alone  with  Mrs.  Wessington. 
'Agnes,'  said  I,  'will  you  put  back  your  hood  and  tell  me 
what  it  all  means?'  The  hood  dropped  noiselessly,  and  I 
was  face  to  face  with  my  dead  and  buried  mistress.  She 
was  wearing  the  dress  in  which  I  had  last  seen  her  alive; 
carried  the  same  tiny  handkerchief  in  her  right  hand;  and 
the  same  card-case  in  her  left.  (A  woman  eight  months 
dead  with  a  card-case !)  I  had  to  pin  myself  down  to  the 
multiplication-table,  and  to  set  both  hands  on  the  stone 
parapet  of  the  road,  to  assure  myself  that  that  at  least 
was  real. 

'Agnes,'  I  repeated,  'for  pity's  sake  tell  me  what  it  all 
means.'  Mrs.  Wessington  leaned  forward,  with  that  odd, 


136  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

quick  turn  of  the  head  I  used  to  know  so  well,  and 
spoke. 

If  my  story  had  not  already  so  madly  overleaped  the 
bounds  of  all  human  belief  I  should  apologise  to  you  now. 
As  I  know  that  no  one — no,  not  even  Kitty,  for  whom  it  is 
written  as  some  sort  of  justification  of  my  conduct — will 
believe  me,  I  will  go  on.  Mrs.  Wessington  spoke  and  I 
walked  with  her  from  the  Sanjowlie  road  to  the  turning 
below  the  Commander-in-Chief's  house  as  I  might  walk 
by  the  side  of  any  living  woman's  'rickshaw,  deep  in  con- 
versation. The  second  and  most  tormenting  of  my 
moods  of  sickness  had  suddenly  laid  hold  upon  me,  and 
like  the  Prince  in  Tennyson's  poem,  'I  seemed  to  move 
amid  a  world  of  ghosts.'  There  had  been  a  garden-party 
at  the  Commander-in-Chief's,  and  we  two  joined  the 
crowd  of  homeward-bound  folk.  As  I  saw  them  it  seemed 
that  they  were  the  shadows — impalpable  fantastic 
shadows — that  divided  for  Mrs.  Wessington's  'rickshaw 
to  pass  through.  What  we  said  during  the  course  of  thai 
weird  interview  I  cannot — indeed,  I  dare  not — tell. 
Heatherlegh's  comment  would  have  been  a  short  laugh 
and  a  remark  that  I  hadv  been  'mashing  a  brain-eye-and- 
stomach  chimera.'  It  was  a  ghastly  and  yet  in  some  in- 
definable way  a  marvellously  dear  experience.  Could  it 
be  possible,  I  wondered,  that  I  was  in  this  life  to  woo  a 
second  time  the  woman  I  had  killed  by  my  own  neglect 
and  cruelty? 

I  met  Kitty  on  the  homeward  road — a  shadow  among 
shadows. 

If  I  were  to  describe  all  the  incidents  of  the  next  fort- 
night in  their  order,  my  story  would  never  come  to  an  end; 
and  your  patience  would  be  exhausted.  Morning  after 
morning  and  evening  after  evening  the  ghostly  'rickshaw 
and  I  used  to  wander  through  Simla  together.  Wherever 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW  137 

I  went  there  the  four  black  and  white  liveries  followed  me 
and  bore  me  company  to  and  from  my  hotel.  At  the 
Theatre  I  found  them  amid  the  crowd  of  yelling  jham- 
panies;  outside  the  Club  veranda,  after  a  long  evening  of 
whist;  at  the  Birthday  Ball,  waiting  patiently  for  my  re- 
appearance; and  in  broad  daylight  when  I  went  calling. 
Save  that  it  cast  no  shadow,  the  'rickshaw  was  in  every 
respect  as  real  to  look  upon  as  one  of  wood  and  iron. 
More  than  once,  indeed,  I  have  had  to  check  myself  from 
warning  some  hard-riding  friend  against  cantering  over  it. 
More  than  once  I  have  walked  down  the  Mall  deep  in  con- 
versation with  Mrs.  Wessington  to  the  unspeakable 
amazement  of  the  passers-by. 

Before  I  had  been  out  and  about  a  week  I  learned  that 
the  'fit'  theory  had  been  discarded  in  favour  of  insanity. 
However,  I  made  no  change  in  my  mode  of  life.  I  called, 
rode,  and  dined  out  as  freely  as  ever.  I  had  a  passion  for 
the  society  of  my  kind  which  I  had  never  felt  before;  I 
hungered  to  be  among  the  realities  of  life;  and  at  the  same 
time  I  felt  vaguely  unhappy  when  I  had  been  separated 
too  long  from  my  ghostly  companion.  It  would  be  al- 
most impossible  to  describe  my  varying  moods  from  the 
1 5th  of  May  up  to  to-day. 

The  presence  of  the  'rickshaw  filled  me  by  turns  with 
horror,  blind  fear,  a  dim  sort  of  pleasure,  and  utter  de- 
spair. I  dared  not  leave  Simla;  and  I  knew  that  my  stay 
there  was  killing  me.  I  knew,  moreover,  that  it  was  my 
destiny  to  die  slowly  and  a  little  every  day.  My  only 
anxiety  was  to  get  the  penance  over  as  quietly  as  might 
be.  Alternately  I  hungered  for  a  sight  of  Kitty  and 
watched  her  outrageous  flirtations  with  my  successor — to 
speak  more  accurately,  my  successors — with  amused 
interest.  She  was  as  much  out  of  my  life  as  I  was  out  of 
hers.  By  day  I  wandered  with  Mrs.  Wessington  almost 


138  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

content.  By  night  I  implored  Heaven  to  let  me  return  to 
the  world  as  I  used  to  know  it.  Above  all  these  varying 
moods  lay  the  sensation  of  dull,  numbing  wonder  that  the 
seen  and  the  Unseen  should  mingle  so  strangely  on  this 
earth  to  hound  one  poor  soul  to  its  grave. 


August  27. — Heatherlegh  has  been  indefatigable  in  his 
attendance  on  me;  and  only  yesterday  told  me  that  I 
ought  to  send  in  an  application  for  sick  leave.  An 
application  to  escape  the  company  of  a  phantom!  A  re- 
quest that  the  Government  would  graciously  permit  me 
to  get  rid  of  five  ghosts  and  an  airy  'rickshaw  by  going  to 
England !  Heatherlegh's  proposition  moved  me  to  almost 
hysterical  laughter.  I  told  him  that  I  should  await  the 
end  quietly  at  Simla;  and  I  am  sure  that  the  end  is  not  far 
off.  Believe  me  that  I  dread  its  advent  more  than  any 
word  can  say;  and  I  torture  myself  nightly  with  a  thou- 
sand speculations  as  to  the  manner  of  my  death. 

Shall  I  die  in  my  bed  decently  and  as  an  English  gentle- 
man should  die;  or,  in  one  last  walk  on  the  Mall,  will  my 
soul  be  wrenched  from  me  to  take  its  place  for  ever  and 
ever  by  the  side  of  that  ghastly  phantasm?  Shall  I  return 
to  my  old  lost  allegiance  in  the  next  world,  or  shall  I  meet 
Agnes  loathing  her  and  bound  to  her  side  through  all 
eternity?  Shall  we  two  hover  over  the  scene  of  our  lives 
till  the  end  of  Time?  As  the  day  of  my  death  draws 
nearer,  the  intense  horror  that  all  living  flesh  feels  towards 
escaped  spirits  from  beyond  the  grave  grows  more  and 
more  powerful.  It  is  an  awful  thing  to  go  down  quick 
among  the  dead  with  scarcely  one-half  of  your  life  com- 
pleted. It  is  a  thousand  times  more  awful  to  wait  as  I  do 
in  your  midst,  for  I  know  not  what  unimaginable  terror. 
Pity  me,  at  least  on  the  score  of  my  'delusion,'  for  I  know 


THE  PHANTOM   'RICKSHAW  73$ 

you  will  never  believe  what  I  have  written  here.  Yet  as 
surely  as  ever  a  man  was  done  to  death  by  the  Powers  of 
Darkness,  I  am  that  man. 

In  justice,  too,  pity  her.  For  as  surely  as  ever  woman 
was  killed  by  man,  I  killed  Mrs.  Wessington.  And  the 
last  portion  of  my  punishment  is  even  now  upon  me. 


MY  OWN  TRUE  GHOST  STORY 

As  I  came  through  the  Desert  thus  it  was — 
As  I  came  through  the  Desert. 

The  City  of  Dreadful  Night. 

THIS  story  deals  entirely  with  ghosts.  There  are,  in 
India,  ghosts  who  take  the  form  of  fat,  cold,  pobby  corpses, 
and  hide  in  trees  near  the  roadside  till  a  traveller  passes. 
Then  they  drop  upon  his  neck  and  remain.  There  are 
also  terrible  ghosts  of  women  who  have  died  in  childbed. 
These  wander  along  the  pathway  at  dusk,  or  hide  in  the 
crops  near  a  village,  and  call  seductively.  But  to  answer 
their  call  is  death  in  this  world  and  the  next.  Their  feet 
are  turned  backwards  that  all  sober  men  may  recognise 
them.  There  are  ghosts  of  little  children  who  have  been 
thrown  into  wells.  These  haunt  well-curbs  and  the 
fringes  of  jungles,  and  wail  under  the  stars,  or  catch 
tvomen  by  the  wrist  and  beg  to  be  taken  up  and  carried. 
These  and  the  corpse-ghosts,  however,  are  only  vernacu- 
lar articles  and  do  not  attack  Sahibs.  No  native  ghost  has 
yet  been  authentically  reported  to  have  frightened  an 
Englishman;  but  many  English  ghosts  have  scared  the 
life  out  of  both  white  and  black. 

Nearly  every  other  Station  owns  a  ghost.  There  are 
said  to  be  two  at  Simla,  not  counting  the  woman  who 
blows  the  bellows  at  Syree  dak-bungalow  on  the  Old  Road; 
Mussoorie  has  a  house  haunted  by  a  very  lively  Thing;  a 
White  Lady  is  supposed  to  do  night-watchman  round  a 
house  in  Lahore;  Dalhousie  says  that  one  of  her  houses 

140 


MY  OWN  TRUE  GHOST  STORY  141 

'repeats'  on  autumn  evenings  all  the  incidents  of  a  horri- 
ble horse-and-precipice  accident;  Murree  has  a  merry 
ghost,  and,  now  that  she  has  been  swept  by  cholera,  will 
have  room  for  a  sorrowful  one;  there  are  Officers'  Quarters 
in  Mian  Mir  whose  doors  open  without  reason,  and  whose 
furniture  is  guaranteed  to  creak,  not  with  the  heat  of  June 
but  with  the  weight  of  Invisibles  who  come  to  lounge  in 
the  chairs;  Peshawur  possesses  houses  that  none  will 
willingly  rent;  and  there  is  something — not  fever — wrong 
with  a  big  bungalow  in  Allahabad.  The  older  Provinces 
simply  bristle  with  haunted  houses,  and  march  phantom 
armies  along  their  main  thoroughfares. 

Some  of  the  dak-bungalows  on  the  Grand  Trunk  Road 
have  handy  little  cemeteries  in  their  compound — wit- 
nesses to  the  '  changes  and  chances  of  this  mortal  life'  in 
the  days  when  men  drove  from  Calcutta  to  the  North  west. 
These  bungalows  are  objectionable  places  to  put  up  in. 
They  are  generally  very  old,  always  dirty,  while  the  khan- 
samah  is  as  ancient  as  the  bungalow.  He  either  chatters 
senilely,  or  falls  into  the  long  trances  of  age.  In  both 
moods  he  is  useless.  If  you  get  angry  with  him,  he  refers 
to  some  Sahib  dead  and  buried  these  thirty  years,  and 
says  that  when  he  was  in  that  Sahib's  service  not  a  khan- 
samah  in  the  Province  could  touch  him.  Then  he  jabbers 
and  mows  and  trembles  and  fidgets  among  the  dishes,  and 
you  repent  of  your  irritation. 

Not  long  ago  it  was  my  business  to  live  in  dak-bun- 
galows. I  never  inhabited  the  same  house  for  three 
nights  running,  and  grew  to  be  learned  in  the  breed. 
I  lived  in  Government-built  ones  with  red  brick  walls 
and  rail  ceilings,  an  inventory  of  the  furniture  posted 
in  every  room,  and  an  excited  cobra  on  the  threshold 
to  give  welcome.  I  lived  in  'converted'  ones — old 
houses  officiating  as  dak-bungalows — where  nothing 


142  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

was  in  its  proper  place  and  there  was  not  even  a  fowl 
for  dinner.  I  lived  in  second-hand  palaces  where  the 
wind  blew  through  open-work  marble  tracery  just  as 
uncomfortably  as  through  a  broken  pane.  I  lived  in 
dak-bungalows  where  the  last  entry  in  the  visitors' 
book  was  fifteen  months  old,  and  where  they  slashed 
off  the  curry-kid's  head  with  a  sword.  It  was  my  good 
luck  to  meet  all  sorts  of  men,  from  sober  travelling 
missionaries  and  deserters  flying  from  British  Regi- 
ments, to  drunken  loafers  who  threw  whiskey  bottles 
at  all  who  passed;  and  my  still  greater  good-fortune 
just  to  escape  a  maternity  case.  Seeing  that  a  fair  pro- 
portion of  the  tragedy  of  our  lives  in  India  acted  itself 
in  dak-bungalows,  I  wondered  that  I  had  met  no  ghosts. 
A  ghost  that  would  voluntarily  hang  about  a  dak-bun- 
galow would  be  mad  of  course;  but  so  many  men  have 
died  mad  in  dak-bungalows  that  there  must  be  a  fair 
percentage  of  lunatic  ghosts. 

In  due  time  I  found  my  ghost,  or  ghosts  rather,  foi 
there  were  two  of  them. 

We  will  call  the  bungalow  Katmal  dak-bungalow; 
but  that  was  the  smallest  part  of  the  horror.  A  man 
with  a  sensitive  hide  has  no  right  to  sleep  in  dak-bun- 
galows. He  should  marry.  Katmal  dak-bungalow  was 
old  and  rotten  and  unrepaired.  The  floor  was  of  worn 
brick,  the  walls  were  filthy,  and  the  windows  were 
nearly  black  with  grime.  It  stood  on  a  bypath  largely 
used  by  native  Sub-Deputy  Assistants  of  all  kinds, 
from  Finance  to  Forests;  but  real  Sahibs  were  rare. 
The  khansamahy  who  was  nearly  bent  double  with  old 
age,  said  so. 

When  I  arrived,  there  was  a  fitful,  undecided  rain 
on  the  face  of  the  land,  accompanied  by  a  restless  wind, 
and  every  gust  made  a  noise  like  the  rattling  of  dry 


MY  OWN  TRUE  GHOST  STORY  143 

bones  in  the  stiff  toddy-palms  outside.  The  khansamah 
completely  lost  his  head  on  my  arrival.  He  had  served 
a  Sahib  once.  Did  I  know  that  Sahib?  He  gave  me 
the  name  of  a  well-known  man  who  has  been  buried  for 
more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  showed  me  an 
ancient  daguerreotype  of  that  man  in  his  prehistoric 
youth.  I  had  seen  a  steel  engraving  of  him  at  the  head 
of  a  double  volume  of  Memoirs  a  month  before,  and  I 
felt  ancient  beyond  telling. 

The  day  shut  in  and  the  khansamah  went  to  get  me 
food.  He  did  not  go  through  the  pretence  of  calling  it 
'kkana,' — man's  victuals.  He  said  'ratub,'  and  that 
means,  among  other  things,  'grub' — dog's  rations. 
There  was  no  insult  in  his  choice  of  the  term.  He  had 
forgotten  the  other  word,  I  suppose. 

While  he  was  cutting  up  the  dead  bodies  of  animals, 
I  settled  myself  down,  after  exploring  the  dak-bungalow. 
There  were  three  rooms,  beside  my  own,  which  was  a 
corner  kennel,  each  giving  into  the  other  through  dingy 
white  doors  fastened  with  long  iron  bars.  The  bungalow 
was  a  very  solid  one,  but  the  partition-walls  of  the  rooms 
were  almost  jerry-built  in  their  flimsiness.  Every  step 
or  bang  of  a  trunk  echoed  from  my  room  down  the  other 
three,  and  every  footfall  came  back  tremulously  from 
the  far  walls.  For  this  reason  I  shut  the  door.  There 
were  no  lamps — only  candles  in  long  glass  shades.  An 
oil  wick  was  set  in  the  bathroom. 

For  bleak,  unadulterated  misery  that  dak-bungalow 
was  the  worst  of  the  many  that  I  had  ever  set  foot  in. 
There  was  no  fireplace,  and  the  windows  would  not 
open;  so  a  brazier  of  charcoal  would  have  been  use- 
less. The  rain  and  the  wind  splashed  and  gurgled  and 
moaned  round  the  house,  and  the  toddy-palms  rattled 
and  roared.  Half  a  dozen  jackals  went  through  the 


144  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

compound  singing,  and  a  hyena  stood  afar  off  and 
mocked  them.  A  hyena  would  convince  a  Sadducee 
of  the  Resurrection  of  the  Dead — the  worst  sort  of 
Dead.  Then  came  the  ratub — a  curious  meal,  half 
native  and  half  English  in  composition — with  the  old 
khansamah  babbling  behind  my  chair  about  dead  and 
gone  English  people,  and  the  wind-blown  candles  play- 
ing shadow-bo-peep  with  the  bed  and  the  mosquito- 
curtains.  It  was  just  the  sort  of  dinner  and  evening 
to  make  a  man  think  of  every  single  one  of  his  past 
sins,  and  of  all  the  others  that  he  intended  to  commit  if 
he  lived. 

Sleep,  for  several  hundred  reasons,  was  not  easy. 
The  lamp  in  the  bathroom  threw  the  most  absurd 
shadows  into  the  room,  and  the  wind  was  beginning  to 
talk  nonsense. 

Just  when  the  reasons  were  drowsy  with  blood- 
sucking I  heard  the  regular — 'Let-us-take-and-heave- 
him-over'  grunt  of  doolie-bearers  in  the  compound. 
First  one  doolie  came  in,  then  a  second,  and  then  a 
third.  I  heard  the  doolies  dumped  on  the  ground, 
and  the  shutter  in  front  of  my  door  shook. 

'That's  some  one  trying  to  come  in/  I  said.  But 
no  one  spoke,  and  I  persuaded  myself  that  it  was  the 
gusty  wind.  The  shutter  of  the  room  next  to  mine 
was  attacked,  flung  back,  and  the  inner  door  opened. 
'That's  some  Sub-Deputy  Assistant,'  I  said,  'and  he 
has  brought  his  friends  with  him.  Now  they'll  talk 
and  spit  and  smoke  for  an  hour.' 

But  there  were  no  voices  and  no  footsteps.  No  one 
was  putting  his  luggage  into  the  next  room.  The 
door  shut,  and  I  thanked  Providence  that  I  was  to  be 
left  in  peace.  But  I  was  curious  to  know  where  the 
doolies  had  gone.  I  got  out  of  bed  and  looked  into  the 


MY  OWN  TRUE  GHOST  STORY  145 

darkness.  There  was  never  a  sign  of  a  doolie.  Just  as 
I  was  getting  into  bed  again,  I  heard,  in  the  next  room, 
the  sound  that  no  man  in  his  senses  can  possibly  mistake 
— the  whir  of  a  billiard  ball  down  the  length  of  the 
slate  when  the  striker  is  stringing  for  break.  No  other 
sound  is  like  it.  A  minute  afterwards  there  was  another 
whir,  and  I  got  into  bed.  I  was  not  frightened — indeed 
I  was  not.  I  was  very  curious  to  know  what  had  become 
of  the  doolies.  I  jumped  into  bed  for  that  reason. 

Next  minute  I  heard  the  double  click  of  a  cannon, 
and  my  hair  sat  up.  It  is  a  mistake  to  say  that  hair 
stands  up.  The  skin  of  the  head  tightens  and  you 
can  feel  a  faint,  prickly  bristling  all  over  the  scalp. 
That  is  the  hair  sitting  up. 

There  was  a  whir  and  a  click,  and  both  sounds  could 
only  have  been  made  by  one  thing — a  billiard  ball. 
I  argued  the  matter  out  at  great  length  with  myself; 
and  the  more  I  argued  the  less  probable  it  seemed  that 
one  bed,  one  table,  and  two  chairs — all  the  furniture 
of  the  room  next  to  mine — could  so  exactly  duplicate 
the  sounds  of  a  game  of  billiards.  After  another  can- 
non, a  three-cushion  one  to  judge  by  the  whir,  I  argued 
no  more.  I  had  found  my  ghost  and  would  have  given 
worlds  to  have  escaped  from  that  dak-bungalow.  I 
listened,  and  with  each  listen  the  game  grew  clearer. 
There  was  whir  on  whir  and  click  on  click.  Sometimes 
there  was  a  double  click  and  a  whir  and  another  click. 
Beyond  any  sort  of  doubt,  people  were  playing  billiards 
in  the  next  room.  And  the  next  room  was  not  big  enough 
to  hold  a  billiard  table ! 

Between  the  pauses  of  the  wind  I  heard  the  game 
go  forward — stroke  after  stroke.  I  tried  to  believe 
that  I  could  not  hear  voices;  but  that  attempt  was  a 
failure. 


146  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Do  you  know  what  fear  is?  Not  ordinary  fear  of 
insult,  injury,  or  death,  but  abject,  quivering  dread  of 
something  that  you  cannot  see — fear  that  dries  the  in- 
side of  the  mouth  and  half  of  the  throat — fear  that  makes 
you  sweat  on  the  palms  of  the  hands,  and  gulp  in  order 
to  keep  the  uvula  at  work?  This  is  a  fine  Fear — a 
great  cowardice,  and  must  be  felt  to  be  appreciated. 
The  very  improbability  of  billiards  in  a  dak-bungalow 
proved  the  reality  of  the  thing.  No  man — drunk  or 
sober — could  imagine  a  game  at  billiards,  or  invent  the 
spitting  crack  of  a  'screw  cannon.' 

A  severe  course  of  dak-bungalows  has  this  disadvan- 
tage— it  breeds  infinite  credulity.  If  a  man  said  to  a 
confirmed  dak-bungalow-haunter:  'There  is  a  corpse 
in  the  next  room,  and  there's  a  mad  girl  in  the  next 
one,  and  the  woman  and  man  on  that  camel  have  just 
eloped  from  a  place  sixty  miles  away,'  the  hearer  would 
not  disbelieve  because  he  would  know  that  nothing  is 
too  wild,  grotesque,  or  horrible  to  happen  in  a  dak-bun- 
galow. 

This  credulity,  unfortunately,  extends  to  ghosts.  A 
rational  person  fresh  from  his  own  house  would  have 
turned  on  his  side  and  slept.  I  did  not.  So  surely  as 
I  was  given  up  for  a  dry  carcass  by  the  scores  of  things 
in  the  bed,  because  the  bulk  of  my  blood  was  in  my 
heart,  so  surely  did  I  hear  every  stroke  of  a  long  game 
at  billiards  played  in  the  echoing  room  behind  the  iron- 
barred  door.  My  dominant  fear  was  that  the  players 
might  want  a  marker.  It  was  an  absurd  fear;  because 
creatures  who  could  play  in  the  dark  would  be  above 
such  superfluities.  I  only  know  that  that  was  my  terror; 
and  it  was  real. 

After  a  long,  long  while,  the  game  stopped,  and  the 
door  banged.  I  slept  because  I  was  dead  tired.  Other- 


MY  OWN  TRUE  GHOST  STORY  147 

wise  I  should  have  preferred  to  have  kept  awake.  Not 
for  everything  in  Asia  would  I  have  dropped  the  door- 
bar  and  peered  into  the  dark  of  the  next  room. 

When  the  morning  came,  I  considered  that  I  had  done 
well  and  wisely,  and  enquired  for  the  means  of  departure. 

'By  the  way,  khansamah,'  I  said,  'what  were  those 
three  doolies  doing  in  my  compound  in  the  night? ' 

'There  were  no  doolies/  said  the  khansamah. 

I  went  into  the  next  room,  and  the  daylight  streamed 
through  the  open  door.  I  was  immensely  brave.  I 
would,  at  that  hour,  have  played  Black  Pool  with  the 
owner  of  the  big  Black  Pool  down  below. 

'Has  this  place  always  been  a  dak-bungalow?'  I  asked. 

'No/  said  the  khansamah.  'Ten  or  twenty  years 
ago,  I  have  forgotten  how  long,  it  was  a  billiard-room.' 

'A  what?' 

'A  billiard-room  for  the  Sahibs  who  built  the  Rail- 
way. I  was  khansamah  then  in  the  big  house  where  all 
the  Railway-Sahibs  lived,  and  I  used  to  come  across 
with  br&ndy-shrab.  These  three  rooms  were  all  one, 
and  they  held  a  big  table  on  which  the  Sahibs  played 
every  evening.  But  the  Sahibs  are  all  dead  now,  and 
the  Railway  runs,  you  say,  nearly  to  Kabul.' 

'Do  you  remember  anything  about  the  Sahibs?' 

'It  is  long  ago,  but  I  remember  that  one  Sahib,  a  fat 
man,  and  always  angry,  was  playing  here  one  night, 
and  he  said  to  me:  "Mangal  Khan,  brandy-pani  do," 
and  I  filled  the  glass,  and  he  bent  over  the  table  to 
strike,  and  his  head  fell  lower  and  lower  till  it  hit  the 
table,  and  his  spectacles  came  off,  and  when  we — the 
Sahibs  and  I  myself — ran  to  lift  him  he  was  dead.  I 
helped  to  carry  him  out.  Aha,  he  was  a  strong  Sahib! 
But  he  is  dead,  and  I,  old  Mangal  Khan,  am  still  living, 
by  your  favour.' 


i48  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

That  was  more  than  enough!  I  had  my  ghost— 
a  first-hand,  authenticated  article.  I  would  write  to 
the  Society  for  Psychical  Research — I  would  paralyse 
the  Empire  with  the  news!  But  I  would,  first  of  all, 
put  eighty  miles  of  assessed  crop-land  between  myself 
and  that  dak-bungalow  before  nightfall.  The  Society 
might  send  their  regular  agent  to  investigate  later  on. 

I  went  into  my  own  room  and  prepared  to  pack,  after 
noting  down  the  facts  of  the  case.  As  I  smoked  I  heard 
the  game  begin  again, — with  a  miss  in  balk  this  time, 
for  the  whir  was  a  short  one. 

The  door  was  open,  and  I  could  see  into  the  room. 
Click — dick  I  That  was  a  cannon.  I  entered  the  room 
without  fear,  for  there  was  sunlight  within  and  a  fresh 
breeze  without.  The  unseen  game  was  going  on  at  a 
tremendous  rate.  And  well  it  might,  when  a  restless 
little  rat  was  running  to  and  fro  inside  the  dingy  ceiling- 
cloth,  and  a  piece  of  loose  window-sash  was  making 
fifty  breaks  off  the  window-bolt  as  it  shook  in  the 
breeze! 

Impossible  to  mistake  the  sound  of  billiard  balls! 
Impossible  to  mistake  the  whir  of  a  ball  over  the  slate ! 
But  I  was  to  be  excused.  Even  when  I  shut  my  enlight- 
ened eyes  the  sound  was  marvellously  like  that  of  a  fast 
game. 

Entered  angrily  the  faithful  partner  of  my  sorrows, 
Kadir  Baksh. 

'This  bungalow  is  very  bad  and  low-caste!  No 
wonder  the  Presence  was  disturbed  and  is  speckled. 
Three  sets  of  doolie-bearers  came  to  the  bungalow  late 
last  night  when  I  was  sleeping  outside,  and  said  that  it 
was  their  custom  to  rest  in  rooms  set  apart  for  the 
English  people!  What  honour  has  the  khansamah?  They 
tried  to  enter,  but  I  told  them  to  go.  No  wonder,  if  these 


MY  OWN  TRUE  GHOST  STORY  149 

Oorias  have  been  here,  that  the  Presence  is  sorely  spotted. 
It  is  shame,  and  the  work  of  a  dirty  man ! ' 

Kadir  Baksh  did  not  say  that  he  had  taken  from  each 
gang  two  annas  for  rent  in  advance,  and  then,  beyond  my 
earshot,  had  beaten  them  with  the  big  green  umbrella 
whose  use  I  could  never  before  divine.  But  Kadir  Baksh 
has  no  notions  of  morality. 

There  was  an  interview  with  the  khansamah,  but  as  he 
promptly  lost  his  head,  wrath  gave  place  to  pity,  and  pity 
led  to  a  long  conversation,  in  the  course  of  which  he  put 
the  fat  Engineer-Sahib's  tragic  death  in  three  separate 
stations — two  of  them  fifty  miles  away.  The  third  shift 
was  to  Calcutta,  and  there  the  Sahib  died  while  driving  a 
dog-cart. 

I  did  not  go  away  as  soon  as  I  intended.  I  stayed  for 
the  night,  while  the  wind  and  the  rat  and  the  sash  and  the 
window-bolt  played  a  ding-dong  'hundred  and  fifty  up.' 
Then  the  wind  ran  out  and  the  billiards  stopped,  and  I 
felt  that  I  had  ruined  my  one  geniune  ghost  story. 

Had  I  only  ceased  investigating  at  the  proper  time,  I 
could  have  made  anything  out  of  it. 

That  was  the  bitterest  thought  of  all! 


THE  TRACK  OF  A  LIE1 

*  CONSEQUENCES  of  our  acts  eternal  ?  Bosh ! '  said 
Blawkins,  at  the  Club.  'That's  what  the  Padres  say. 
See,  now!'  The  smoking  room  was  empty,  except  for 
Blawkins  and  myself.  '  I'll  tell  you  an  idiotic  little  super- 
stition I  picked  up  the  other  day,'  said  he.  'The  natives 
say  that  Allah  allows  the  tiger  one  rupee  eight  annas  a 
day  for  his  food;  and  if  you  total  up  the  month's  cattle 
bill  of  an  average  tiger,  not  a  man-eater,  you'll  find  that 
it's  exactly  forty-five  rupees  per  mensem.1 

'  I  know  that/  said  I.    '  And  it  happens  to  be  true.' 

'  Very  good,'  said  Blawkins.  '  Do  you  mean  to  say  that 
anything  is  going  to  come  of  an  idle  sentence  like  that?  I 
say  it.  You  hear  it.  Well? '  Blawkins  swung  out  of  the 
Club,  leaving  me  vanquished. 

But  the  statement  rang  in  my  head.  There  was  some- 
thing catching  about  the  words,  'Allah  allows  the  tiger 
one  rupee  eight  annas  a  day  for  his  food.'  It  was  a  quaint 
superstition,  and  one  not  generally  known.  Would  the 
local  paper  care  for  it?  It  fitted  a  corner,  empty  for  the 
moment;  and  one  or  two  readers  said,  'What  a  curious 
idea!' 

That  the  tiny  paragraph  should  have  wandered  to 
Southern  India  was  not  very  strange,  though  there  was  no 
reason  why  it  should  not  have  trickled  to  the  Bombay 
side,  instead  of  dropping  straight  as  a  plummet  to  Madras. 
That  it  should  have  jumped  Adam's  Bridge,  and  been 

'Copyright,  1895.  by  MACMTLLAK  &  Co. 


THE  TRACK  OF  A  LIE  151 

copied  in  a  Ceylon  journal,  was  strange;  but  Blawkins  had 
been  transferred  to  the  other  end  of  the  Empire,  just  two 
days  before  the  Ceylon  papers  told  their  cinchona  plant- 
ers that  'Allah  allows  the  tiger  one  rupee  eight  annas  a 
day,'  etc. 

Three  week's  passed,  and  from  the  eastern  side  of  the 
Bay  of  Bengal  came  in  the  Burma  mail.  Boh  Ottima  was 
dead,  and  the  Field  Force  was  hard  worked;  Mandalay 
was  suffering  from  cholera,  but  at  the  bottom  of  the  last 
page  the  rest  of  the  world  might  read  that  'Allah  allows 
the  tiger,'  etc.  Blawkins  was  on  duty  in  the  Bolan,  very 
sick  with  fever.  It  was  not  worth  while  to  follow  him 
with  a  letter. 

Week  by  week  Europe  grew  to  be  a  hornet-hive,  throb- 
bing and  humming  angrily,  as  the  messages  pulsed 
through  the  wires.  Then  Singapur  reported  that  'Allah 
allows  the  tiger,'  etc.  Here,  assuredly,  was  the  limit  of 
my  paragraph's  wandering.  It  might  struggle  into  the 
Malayan  Archipelago,  but  beyond  that  scattered  heap  of 
islands  it  could  not  pass. 

Germany  called  for  more  men;  France  answered  the 
call  with  fresh  battalions  on  her  side;  and  the  strangely 
scented,  straw-hued  journals  of  Shanghai  and  Yokohama 
made  public  to  the  Far  East  the  news  that  'Allah  allows 
the  tiger,'  etc.  Blawkins,  now  at  Poona,  was  desperately 
in  love  with  a  Miss  Blandyre.  What  were  paragraphs  to 
a  passionate  lover?  I  never  sent  him  a  line,  though  he 
bombarded  me  with  a  very  auctioneer's  catalogue  of  Miss 
Blandyre's  charms.  What  would  my  paragraph  do?  It 
had  reached  the  open  Pacific  now,  and  must  surely  drown 
in  five  thousand  miles  of  black  water.  After  all,  it  had 
lived  long. 

Yet,  I  had  presentiments,  and  waited  anxiously  for 
what  might  come.  The  flying  keel  stayed  at  the  Golden 


152  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Gate,  where  the  sea-lions  romp  and  gurgle  and  bask:  Eu- 
pope  shook  with  the  tread  of  armed  men,  but — where  w** 
my  paragraph?  In  America — for  San  Francisco  wished 
to  know,  if  'Allah  allowed  the  tiger,'  etc.,  how  much  a  Los 
Angeles  hotel-keeper  would  be  justified  in  charging  a 
millionaire  with  delirium  tremens  ?  Would  Eastern  Amer- 
ica accept  it?  The  paragraph  touched  Salt  Lake  City; 
and  thenceforward,  straight  as  a  homeward-bound  bee, 
headed  New  York- wards.  They  took  it;  they  cut,  chipped, 
chopped,  laughed;  were  ribald,  pious,  profane,  cynical, 
and  frankly  foolish  over  it;  but,  as  though  it  were  under  a 
special  and  mysterious  protection  of  Providence,  it  re- 
turned, always,  to  its  original  shape.  It  ran  southward 
into  New  Orleans,  northward  to  Toronto;  and  week  after 
week  the  weather-beaten  exchanges  recorded  its  eastward 
progress.  Boston  appreciated  it  as  something  perfectly 
original;  and  at  last,  as  a  lone  light  dies  on  an  extreme 
headland,  Philadelphia  sent  back  the  news  that  the 
Emperor  William  was  dead,  and  'Allah  allows  the  tiger/ 
etc.  But  Blawkins  had,  long  ago,  wedded  Miss  Blandyre. 
What  was  the  use  of  writing  to  him?  The  main  point  of 
existence  was,  whether  the  paragraph  could  come  over  the 
Atlantic  to  the  West  Coast  of  England,  where  the  country 
papers  were  lichened  with  the  growth  of  local  politics. 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  I  feared  that  my  paragraph 
was  dead.  But  I  did  it  an  injustice.  Over  the  foaming 
surf  of  the  local  Government  Bill,  through  the  rapids  of 
compensation  to  publicans,  in  the  teeth  of  the  current  of 
Mr.  Gladstone's  appeals  to  the  free  and  enlightened 
electors  of  Wales,  came  my  paragraph — for  Birmingham 
found  room  for  the  announcement  that  'Allah  allows  the 
tiger,' etc.  Blawkins  sent  an  announcement  also.  It  cost 
him  two  rupees,  was  a  purely  local  matter,  and  ended  up 
with  the  words  'of  a  son.'  But  the  paragraph  was  Im- 


THE  TRACK  OF  A  LIE  153 

penal — nay,  Universal.  I  felt  safe,  for  there  was  one 
journal  in  London  whom  nothing  unusual,  or  alas,  unclean, 
ever  escaped.  I  waited  with  confidence  the  arrival  of  the 
Yellow  Wrapper.  When  the  mails  came  in,  the  Bombay 
papers  had  already  quoted  and  commended  to  the  notice 
of  the  Bombay  Zoological  Society  the  curious  statement 
hailing  from  England  in  the  Yellow  Wrapper  that  'Allah 
allows  the  tiger,'  etc. !  The  circuit  was  complete;  and  as 
the  shears  snipped  out  the  announcement,  before  putting 
it  afresh  into  the  very  cradle  in  which  it  had  been  born 
fifteen  months  and  six  days  before,  I  felt  that  I  had  shaken 
hands  with  the  whole  round  world.  My  paragraph  had 
come  home  indeed ! 


Tenderly  as  a  mother  shows  the  face  of  her  sleeping 
child,  I  led  Blawkins  through  the  paper-cuttings,  and 
step  by  step  pointed  out  the  path  of  the  paragraph.  His 
lower  jaw  dropped.  '  By  Jove ! '  said  he, '  I  was  wrong — it 
should  have  been  a  rupee — one  rupee  only — not  one 
eight.' 

'Then,  Blawkins/  said  I,  'you  have  swindled  the  whole 
wide  world  of  the  sum  of  eight  annas,'  nominally  one 
shilling. 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF  MORROWBIE  JUKES 

Alive  or  dead — there  is  no  other  way. — Native  Proverb. 

THERE  is  no  invention  about  this  tale.  Jukes  by 
accident  stumbled  upon  a  village  that  is  well  knowD  to 
exist,  though  he  is  the  only  Englishman  who  has  been 
there.  A  somewhat  similar  institution  used  to  flourish  on 
the  outskirts  of  Calcutta,  and  there  is  a  story  that  if  you 
go  into  the  heart  of  Bikanir,  which  is  in  the  heart  of  the 
Great  Indian  Desert,  you  shall  come  across  not  a  village 
but  a  town  where  the  Dead  who  did  not  die  but  may  not 
live  have  established  their  headquarters.  And,  since  it  is 
perfectly  true  that  in  the  same  Desert  is  a  wonderful  city 
where  all  the  rich  money-lenders  retreat  after  they  have 
made  their  fortunes  (fortunes  so  vast  that  the  owners  can- 
not trust  even  the  strong  hand  of  the  Government  to  pro- 
tect them,  but  take  refuge  in  the  waterless  sands),  and 
drive  sumptuous  C-spring  barouches,  and  buy  beautiful 
girls  and  decorate  their  palaces  with  gold  and  ivory  and 
Minton  tiles  and  mother-o'-pearl,  I  do  not  see  why 
Jukes's  tale  should  not  be  true.  He  is  a  Civil  Engineer, 
with  a  head  for  plans  and  distances  and  things  of  that 
kind,  and  he  certainly  would  not  take  the  trouble  to  in- 
vent imaginary  traps.  He  could  earn  more  by  doing  his 
legitimate  work.  He  never  varies  the  tale  in  the  telling, 
and  grows  very  hot  and  indignant  when  he  thinks  of  the 
disrespectful  treatment  he  received.  Rewrote  this  quite 
straightforwardly  at  first,  but  he  has  touched  it  up  in 
places  and  introduced  Moral  Reflections:  thus: — 

154 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE  15$ 

In  the  beginning  it  all  arose  from  a  slight  attack  of 
fever.  My  work  necessitated  my  being  in  camp  for  some 
months  between  Pakpattan  and  Mubarakpur — a  desolate 
sandy  stretch  of  country  as  every  one  who  has  had  the 
misfortune  to  go  there  may  know.  My  coolies  were 
neither  more  nor  less  exasperating  than  other  gangs,  and 
my  work  demanded  sufficient  attention  to  keep  me  from 
moping,  had  I  been  inclined  to  so  unmanly  a  weakness. 

On  the  23rd  December,  1884,  I  felt  a  little  feverish. 
There  was  a  full  moon  at  the  time,  and,  in  consequence, 
every  dog  near  my  tent  was  baying  it.  The  brutes 
assembled  in  twos  and  threes  and  drove  me  frantic.  A  few 
days  previously  I  had  shot  one  loud-mouthed  singer  and 
suspended  his  carcass  in  terrorem  about  fifty  yards  from 
my  tent-door,  but  his  friends  fell  upon,  fought  for,  and 
ultimately  devoured  the  body:  and,  as  it  seemed  to  me, 
sang  their  hymns  of  thanksgiving  afterwards  with  re- 
newed energy. 

The  light-headedness  which  accompanies  fever  acts 
differently  on  different  men.  My  irritation  gave  way,  after 
a  short  time,  to  a  fixed  determination  to  slaughter  one 
huge  black  and  white  beast  who  had  been  foremost  in 
song  and  first  in  flight  throughout  the  evening.  Thanks  to 
a  shaking  hand  and  a  giddy  head  I  had  already  missed 
him  twice  with  both  barrels  of  my  shot-gun,  when  it  struck 
me  that  my  best  plan  would  be  to  ride  him  down  in  the 
open  and  finish  him  off  with  a  hog-spear.  This,  of  course, 
was  merely  the  semi-delirious  notion  of  a  fever-patient; 
but  I  remember  that  it  struck  me  at  the  time  as  being 
eminently  practical  and  feasible. 

I  therefore  ordered  my  groom  to  saddle  Pornic  and 
bring  Him  round  quietly  to  the  rear  of  my  tent.  When  the 
pony  was  ready,  I  stood  at  his  head  prepared  to  mount  and 
dash  out  as  soon  as  the  dog  should  again  lift  up  his  voice. 


156  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Pornic,  by  the  way,  had  not  been  out  of  his  pickets  for  a 
couple  of  days;  the  night  air  was  crisp  and  chilly;  and  I 
was  armed  with  a  specially  long  and  sharp  pair  of  per- 
suaders with  which  I  had  been  rousing  a  sluggish  cob  that 
afternoon.  You  will  easily  believe,  then,  that  when  he 
was  let  go  he  went  quickly.  In  one  moment,  for  the 
brute  bolted  as  straight  as  a  die,  the  tent  was  left  far  be- 
hind, and  we  were  flying  over  the  smooth  sandy  soil  at 
racing  speed.  In  another  we  had  passed  the  wretched  dog, 
and  I  had  almost  forgotten  why  it  was  that  I  had  taken 
horse  and  hog-spear. 

The  delirium  of  fever  and  the  excitement  of  rapid  mo- 
tion through  the  air  must  have  taken  away  the  remnant 
of  my  senses.  I  have  a  faint  recollection  of  standing  up- 
right in  my  stirrups,  and  of  brandishing  my  hog-spear  at 
the  great  white  Moon  that  looked  down  so  calmly  on  my 
mad  gallop;  and  of  shouting  challenges  to  the  camelthorn 
bushes  as  they  whizzed  past.  Once  or  twice,  I  believe,  I 
swayed  forward  on  Pornic's  neck,  and  literally  hung  on  by 
my  spurs — as  the  marks  next  morning  showed. 

The  wretched  beast  went  forward  like  a  thing  pos- 
sessed, over  what  seemed  to  be  a  limitless  expanse  of 
moonlit  sand.  Next,  I  remember,  the  ground  rose  sud- 
denly in  front  of  us,  and  as  we  topped  the  ascent  I  saw  the 
waters  of  the  Sutlej  shining  like  a  silver  bar  below.  Then 
Pornic  blundered  heavily  on  his  nose,  and  we  rolled  to- 
gether down  some  unseen  slope. 

I  must  have  lost  consciousness,  for  when  I  recovered  I 
was  lying  on  my  stomach  in  a  heap  of  soft  white  sand,  and 
the  dawn  was  beginning  to  break  dimly  over  the  edge  of 
the  slope  down  which  I  had  fallen.  As  the  light  grew 
stronger  I  saw  I  was  at  the  bottom  of  a  horseshoe-shaped 
crater  of  sand,  opening  on  one  side  directly  on  to  the 
shoals  of  the  Sutlej.  My  fever  had  altogether  left  me, 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE  157 

and,  with  the  exception  of  a  slight  dizziness  in  the  head,  I 
felt  no  bad  effects  from  the  fall  over  night. 

Pornic,  who  was  standing  a  few  yards  away,  was 
naturally  a  good  deal  exhausted,  but  had  not  hurt  him- 
self in  the  least.  His  saddle,  a  favourite  polo  one,  was 
much  knocked  about,  and  had  been  twisted  under  his 
belly.  It  took  me  some  time  to  put  him  to  rights,  and  in 
the  meantime  I  had  ample  opportunities  of  observing  the 
spot  into  which  I  had  so  foolishly  dropped. 

At  the  risk  of  being  considered  tedious,  I  must  describe 
it  at  length;  inasmuch  as  an  accurate  mental  picture  of  its 
peculiarities  will  be  of  material  assistance  in  enabling  the 
reader  to  understand  what  follows. 

Imagine  then,  as  I  have  said  before,  a  horseshoe-shaped 
crater  of  sand  with  steeply-graded  sand  walls  about 
thirty-five  feet  high.  (The  slope,  I  fancy,  must  have 
been  about  65°.)  This  crater  enclosed  a  level  piece  of 
ground  about  fifty  yards  long  by  thirty  at  its  broadest 
part,  with  a  rude  well  in  the  centre.  Round  the  bottom 
of  the  crater,  about  three  feet  from  the  level  of  the  ground 
proper,  ran  a  series  of  eighty-three  semicircular,  ovoid, 
square,  and  multilateral  holes,  all  about  three  feet  at  the 
mouth.  Each  hole  on  inspection  showed  that  it  was  care- 
fully shored  internally  with  drift-wood  and  bamboos,  and 
over  the  mouth  a  wooden  drip-board  projected,  like  the 
peak  of  a  jockey's  cap,  for  two  feet.  No  sign  of  life  was 
visible  in  these  tunnels,  but  a  most  sickening  stench  per- 
vaded the  entire  amphitheatre — a  stench  fouler  than  any 
which  my  wanderings  in  Indian  villages  have  introduced 
me  to. 

Having  remounted  Pornic,  who  was  as  anxious  as  I  to 
get  back  to  camp,  I  rode  round  the  base  of  the  horseshoe 
to  find  some  place  whence  an  exit  would  be  practicable. 
The  inhabitants,  whoever  th^y  might  be,  had  not  thought 


i$8  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

fit  to  put  in  an  appearance,  so  I  was  left  to  my  own  de- 
vices. My  first  attempt  to  'rush'  Pornic  up  the  steep 
sand-banks  showed  me  that  I  had  fallen  into  a  trap 
exactly  on  the  same  model  as  that  which  the  ant-lion  sets 
for  its  prey.  At  each  step  the  shifting  sand  poured  down 
from  above  in  tons,  and  rattled  on  the  drip-boards  of  the 
holes  like  small  shot.  A  couple  of  ineffectual  charges  sent 
us  both  rolling  down  to  the  bottom,  half  choked  with  the 
torrents  of  sand;  and  I  was  constrained  to  turn  my  atten- 
tion to  the  river-bank. 

Here  everything  seemed  easy  enough.  The  sand  hills 
ran  down  to  the  river  edge,  it  is  true,  but  there  were 
plenty  of  shoals  and  shallows  across  which  I  could  gallop 
Pornic,  and  find  my  way  back  to  terra  firma  by  turning 
sharply  to  the  right  or  the  left.  As  I  led  Pornic  over  the 
sands  I  was  startled  by  the  faint  pop  of  a  rifle  across  the 
river;  and  at  the  same  moment  a  bullet  dropped  with  a 
sharp  'whit*  close  to  Pornic's  head. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  nature  of  the  missile — a 
regulation  Martini-Henry  'picket.'  About  five  hundred 
yards  away  a  country-boat  was  anchored  in  midstream ; 
and  a  jet  of  smoke  drifting  away  from  its  bows  in  the 
still  morning  air  showed  me  whence  the  delicate  atten- 
tion had  come.  Was  ever  a  respectable  gentleman  in 
such  an  impasse?  The  treacherous  sand  slope  allowed  no 
escape  from  a  spot  which  I  had  visited  most  involuntarily, 
and  a  promenade  on  the  river  frontage  was  the  signal  for  a 
bombardment  from  some  insane  native  in  a  boat.  I'm 
afraid  that  I  lost  my  temper  very  much  indeed. 

Another  bullet  reminded  me  that  I  had  better  save  my 
breath  to  cool  my  porridge;  and  I  retreated  hastily  up  the 
sands  and  back  to  the  horseshoe,  where  I  saw  that  the 
noise  of  the  rifle  had  drawn  sixty-five  human  beings  from 
the  badger-holes  which  I  had  up  till  that  point  supposed 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE  155 

to  be  untenanted.  I  found  myself  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd 
of  spectators — about  forty  men,  twenty  women,  and  one 
child  who  could  not  have  been  more  than  five  years  old. 
They  were  all  scantily  clothed  in  that  salmon  coloured 
cloth  which  one  associates  with  Hindu  mendicants,  and, 
at  first  sight,  gave  me  the  impression  of  a  band  of  loath- 
some/afo'rs.  The  filth  and  repulsiveness  of  the  assembly 
were  beyond  all  description,  and  I  shuddered  to  think 
what  their  lif  e  in  the  badger-holes  must  be. 

Even  in  these  days,  when  local  self-government  has  de- 
stroyed the  greater  part  of  a  native's  respect  for  a  Sahib, 
I  have  been  accustomed  to  a  certain  amount  of  civility 
from  my  inferiors,  and  on  approaching  the  crowd  natu- 
rally expected  that  there  would  be  some  recognition  of  my 
presence.  As  a  matter  of  fact  there  was;  but  it  was  by 
no  means  what  I  had  looked  for. 

The  ragged  crew  actually  laughed  at  me — such 
laughter  I  hope  I  may  never  hear  again.  They  cackled, 
yelled,  whistled,  and  howled  as  I  walked  into  their  midst; 
some  of  them  literally  throwing  themselves  down  on  the 
ground  in  convulsions  of  unholy  mirth.  In  a  moment  I 
had  let  go  Pornic's  head,  and,  irritated  beyond  expression 
at  the  morning's  adventure,  commenced  cuffing  those 
nearest  to  me  with  all  the  force  I  could.  The  wretches 
dropped  under  my  blows  like  nine-pins,  and  the  laughter 
gave  place  to  wails  for  mercy;  while  those  yet  untouched 
clasped  me  round  the  knees,  imploring  me  in  all  sorts  of 
uncouth  tongues  to  spare  them. 

In  the  tumult,  and  just  when  I  was  feeling  very  much 
ashamed  of  myself  for  having  thus  easily  given  way  to 
my  temper,  a  thin,  high  voice  murmured  in  English  from 
behind  my  shoulder:  'Sahib!  Sahib!  Do  you  not  know 
me?  Sahib,  it  is  Gunga  Dass,  the  telegraph-master.' 

I  spun  round  quickly  and  faced  the  speaker. 


160  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Gunga  Dass  (I  have,  of  course,  no  hesitation  in  men- 
tioning  the  man's  real  name)  I  had  known  four  years 
before  as  a  Deccanee  Brahmin  lent  by  the  Punjab  Gov- 
ernment to  one  of  the  Khalsia  States.  He  was  in  charge 
of  a  branch  telegraph-office  there,  and  when  I  had  last 
met  him  was  a  jovial,  full-stomached,  portly  Government 
servant  with  a  marvellous  capacity  for  making  bad  puns 
in  English — a  peculiarity  which  made  me  remember 
him  long  after  I  had  forgotten  his  services  to*  me  in 
his  official  capacity.  It  is  seldom  that  a  Hindu  makes 
English  puns. 

Now,  however,  the  man  was  changed  beyond  all  recog- 
nition. Caste-mark,  stomach,  slate-coloured  continua' 
tions,  and  unctuous  speech  were  all  gone.  I  looked  at  a 
withered  skeleton,  turbanless  and  almost  naked,  with 
long  matted  hair  and  deep-set  codfish-eyes.  But  for  a 
crescent-shaped  scar  on  the  left  cheek — the  result  of  an 
accident  for  which  I  was  responsible — I  should  never 
have  known  him.  But  it  was  indubitably  Gunga  Dass, 
and — for  this  I  was  thankful — an  English-speaking 
native  who  might  at  least  tell  me  the  meaning  of  all 
that  I  had  gone  through  that  day. 

The  crowd  retreated  to  some  distance  as  I  turned 
towards  the  miserable  figure,  and  ordered  him  to  show 
me  some  method  of  escaping  from  the  crater.  He  held 
a  freshly-plucked  crow  in  his  hand,  and  in  reply  to  my 
question  climbed  slowly  on  a  platform  of  sand  which 
ran  in  front  of  the  holes,  and  commenced  lighting  a  fire 
there  in  silence.  Dried  bents,  sand-poppies,  and  drift- 
wood burn  quickly;  and  I  derived  much  consolation 
from  the  fact  that  he  lit  them  with  an  ordinary  sulphur 
match.  When  they  were  in  a  bright  glow,  and  the  crow 
was  neatly  spitted  in  front  thereof,  Gunga  Dass  began 
without  a  word  of  preamble: — 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE  161 

'There  are  only  two  kinds  of  men,  Sar.  The  alive 
and  the  dead.  When  you  are  dead  you  are  dead,  but 
when  you  are  alive  you  live.'  (Here  the  crow  de- 
manded his  attention  for  an  instant  as  it  twirled  before 
the  fire  in  danger  of  being  burnt  to  a  cinder.)  'If  you 
die  at  home  and  do  not  die  when  you  come  to  the  ghat 
to  be  burnt  you  come  here.' 

The  nature  of  the  reeking  village  was  made  plain 
now,  and  all  that  I  had  known  or  read  of  the  grotesque 
and  the  horrible  paled  before  the  fact  just  communi- 
cated by  the  ex-Brahmin.  Sixteen  years  ago,  when  I 
first  landed  in  Bombay,  I  had  been  told  by  a  wandering 
Armenian  of  the  existence,  somewhere  in  India,  of  a 
place  to  which  such  Hindus  as  had  the  misfortune  to 
recover  from  trance  or  catalepsy  were  conveyed  and 
kept,  and  I  recollect  laughing  heartily  at  what  I  was 
then  pleased  to  consider  a  traveller's  tale.  Sitting  at 
the  bottom  of  the  sand-trap,  the  memory  of  Watson's 
Hotel,  with  its  swinging  punkahs,  white-robed  servants 
and  the  sallow-faced  Armenian,  rose  up  in  my  mind  as 
vividly  as  a  photograph,  and  I  burst  into  a  loud  fit  of 
laughter.  The  contrast  was  too  absurd! 

Gunga  Dass,  as  he  bent  over  the  unclean  bird,  watched 
me  curiously.  Hindus  seldom  laugh,  and  his  sur- 
roundings were  not  such  as  to  move  him  that  way.  He 
removed  the  crow  solemnly  from  the  wooden  spit  and 
as  solemnly  devoured  it.  Then  he  continued  his  story, 
which  I  give  in  his  own  words: — 

'In  epidemics  of  the  cholera  you  are  carried  to  be 
burnt  almost  before  you  are  dead.  When  you  come  to 
the  riverside  the  cold  air,  perhaps,  makes  you  alive, 
and  then,  if  you  are  only  little  alive,  mud  is  put  on 
your  nose  and  mouth  and  you  die  conclusively.  If  you 
are  rather  more  alive,  more  mud  is  put;  but  if  you  are 


i6a  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

too  lively  they  let  you  go  and  take  you  away.  I  was 
too  lively,  and  made  protestation  with  anger  against 
the  indignities  that  they  endeavoured  to  press  upon  me. 
In  those  days  I  was  Brahmin  and  proud  man.  Now  I 
am  dead  man  and  eat' — here  he  eyed  the  well-gnawed 
breast  bone  with  the  first  sign  of  emotion  that  I  had 
seen  in  him  since  we  met — 'crows,  and — other  things. 
They  took  me  from  my  sheets  when  they  saw  that  I 
was  too  lively  and  gave  me  medicines  for  one  week, 
and  I  survived  successfully.  Then  they  sent  me  by 
rail  from  my  place  to  Okara  Station,  with  a  man  to 
take  care  of  me;  and  at  Okara  Station  we  met  two  other 
men,  and  they  conducted  we  three  on  camels,  in  the 
night,  from  Okara  Station  to  this  place,  and  they  pro- 
pelled me  from  the  top  to  the  bottom,  and  the  other 
two  succeeded,  and  I  have  been  here  ever  since  two 
and  a  half  years.  Once  I  was  Brahmin  and  proud  man 
and  now  I  eat  crows.' 

'  There  is  no  way  of  getting  out? ' 

'None  of  what  kind  at  all.  When  I  first  came  I 
made  experiments  frequently  and  all  the  others  also, 
but  we  have  always  succumbed  to  the  sand  which  is 
precipitated  upon  our  heads.' 

'But  surely,'  I  broke  in  at  this  point,  'the  river-front 
is  open,  and  it  is  worth  while  dodging  the  bullets;  while 
at  night — 

I  had  already  matured  a  rough  plan  of  escape  which 
a  natural  instinct  of  selfishness  forbade  me  sharing 
with  Gunga  Dass.  He,  however,  divined  my  unspoken 
thought  almost  as  soon  as  it  was  formed;  and,  to  my 
intense  astonishment,  gave  vent  to  a  long  low  chuckle 
of  derision — the  laughter,  be  it  understood,  of  a  supe- 
rior or  at  least  of  an  equal. 

'You  will  not' — he  had  dropped  the  Sir  after  his 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE  163 

first  sentence — 'make  any  escape  that  way.     But  you 
can  try.    I  have  tried.     Once  only.' 

The  sensation  of  nameless  terror  which  I  had  in 
vain  attempted  to  strive  against,  overmastered  me  com- 
pletely. My  long  fast — it  was  now  close  upon  ten 
o'clock,  and  I  had  eaten  nothing  since  tiffin  on  the  pre- 
vious day — combined  with  the  violent  agitation  of  the 
ride  had  exhausted  me,  and  I  verily  believe  that,  fora 
few  minutes,  I  acted  as  one  mad.  I  hurled  myself 
against  the  sand-slope.  I  ran  round  the  base  of  the 
crater,  blaspheming  and  praying  by  turns.  I  crawled 
out  among  the  sedges  of  the  river-front,  only  to  be 
driven  back  each  time  in  an  agony  of  nervous  dread  by 
the  rifle-bullets  which  cut  up  the  sand  round  me — for 
I  dared  not  face  the  death  of  a  mad  dog  among  that 
liideous  crowd — and  so  fell,  spent  and  raving,  at  the 
curb  of  the  well.  No  one  had  taken  the  slightest  notice 
of  an  exhibition  which  makes  me  blush  hotly  even  when 
I  think  of  it  now. 

Two  or  three  men  trod  on  my  panting  body  as  they 
drew  water,  but  they  were  evidently  used  to  this  sort 
of  thing,  and  had  no  time  to  waste  upon  me.  Gunga 
Dass,  indeed,  when  he  had  banked  the  embers  of  his 
fire  with  sand,  was  at  some  pains  to  throw  half  a  cupful 
of  fetid  water  over  my  head,  an  attention  for  which  I 
could  have  fallen  on  my  knees  and  thanked  him,  but 
he  was  laughing  all  the  while  in  the  same  mirthless, 
wheezy  key  that  greeted  me  on  my  first  attempt  to 
force  the  shoals.  And  so,  in  a  half-fainting  state,  I 
lay  till  noon.  Then,  being  only  a  man  after  all,  I  felt 
hungry,  and  said  as  much  to  Gunga  Dass,  whom  I  had 
begun  to  regard  as  my  natural  protector.  Following 
the  impulse  of  the  outer  world  when  dealing  with  na- 
tives, I  put  my  hand  into  my  pocket  and  drew  out  four 


164  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

annas*.  The  absurdity  of  the  gift  struck  me  at  once, 
and  I  was  about  to  replace  the  money. 

Gunga  Dass,  however,  cried:  'Give  me  the  money, 
all  you  have,  or  I  will  get  help,  and  we  will  kill  you ! ' 

A  Briton's  first  impulse,  I  believe,  is  to  guard  the 
contents  of  his  pockets;  but  a  moment's  thought  showed 
me  of  the  folly  of  differing  with  the  one  man  who  had 
it  in  his  power  to  make  me  comfortable;  and  with  whose 
help  it  was  possible  that  I  might  eventually  escape  from 
the  crater.  I  gave  him  all  the  money  in  my  possession, 
Rs,  9-8-5 — nine  rupees,  eight  annas,  and  five  pie — for 
I  always  keep  small  change  as  bakshish  when  I  am  in 
camp.  Gunga  Dass  clutched  the  coins,  and  hid  them  at 
once  in  his  ragged  loin-cloth,  looking  round  to  assure 
himself  that  no  one  had  observed  us. 

'Now  I  will  give  you  something  to  eat/  said  he. 

What  pleasure  my  money  could  have  given  him  I  am 
unable  to  say;  but  inasmuch  a&  it  did  please  him  I 
was  not  sorry  that  I  had  parted  with  it  so  readily,  for 
I  had  no  doubt  that  he  would  have  had  me  killed  if  I 
had  refused.  One  does  not  protest  against  the  doings 
of  a  den  of  wild  beasts;  and  my  companions  were  Iowa 
than  any  beasts.  While  I  eat  what  Gunga  Dass  had 
provided,  a  coarse  chapatti  and  a  cupful  of  the  foul 
well-water,  the  people  showed  not  the  faintest  sign  of 
curiosity — that  curiosity  which  is  so  rampant,  as  a 
rule,  in  an  Indian  village. 

I  could  even  fancy  that  they  despised  me.  At  all 
events  they  treated  me  with  the  most  chilling  indiffer- 
ence, and  Gunga  Dass  was  nearly  as  bad.  I  plied  him 
with  questions  about  the  terrible  village,  and  received  ex- 
tremely unsatisfactory  answers.  So  far  as  I  could  gather, 
it  had  been  in  existence  from  time  immemorial — whence 
I  concluded  that  it  was  at  least  a  century  old — and 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE  165 

during  that  time  no  one  had  ever  been  known  to  escape 
from  it.  [I  had  to  control  myself  here  with  both  hands, 
lest  the  blind  terror  should  lay  hold  of  me  a  second 
time  and  drive  me  raving  found  the  crater.]  Gunga 
Dass  took  a  malicious  pleasure  in  emphasising  this  point 
and  in  watching  me  wince.  Nothing  that  I  could  do 
would  induce  him  to  tell  me  who  the  mysterious  'They' 
were. 

'It  is  so  ordered/  he  would  reply,  'and  I  do  not  yet 
know  any  one  who  has  disobeyed  the  orders.' 

'Only  wait  till  my  servant  finds  that  I  am  missing/ 
I  retorted,  'and  I  promise  you  that  this  place  shall  be 
cleared  off  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  I'll  give  you  a 
ksson  in  civility,  too,  my  friend.' 

'Your  servants  would  be  torn  in  pieces  before  they 
came  near  this  place;  and,  besides,  you  are  dead,  my 
dear  friend.  It  is  not  your  fault,  of  course,  but  none 
the  less  you  are  dead  and  buried.' 

At  irregular  intervals  supplies  of  food,  I  was  told, 
were  dropped  down  from  the  land  side  into  the  amphi- 
theatre, and  the  inhabitants  fought  for  them  like  wild 
beasts.  When  a  man  felt  his  death  coming  on  he  re- 
treated to  his  lair  and  died  there.  The  body  was  some- 
times dragged  out  of  the  hole  and  thrown  on  to  the  sand, 
or  allowed  to  rot  where  it  lay. 

The  phrase  '  thrown  on  to  the  sand'  caught  my  atten- 
tion, and  I  asked  Gunga  Dass  whether  this  sort  of  thing 
was  not  likely  to  breed  a  pestilence. 

'That/  said  he,  with  another  of  his  wheezy  chuckles, 
'you  may  see  for  yourself  subsequently.  You  will  have 
much  time  to  make  observations.' 

Whereat,  to  his  great  delight,  I  winced  once  more  and 
hastily  continued  the  conversation:  'And  how  do  you 
live  here  from  day  to  day?  What  do  you  do?'  The 


166  UNDER  -THE  DEODARS 

question  elicited  exactly  the  same  answer  as  before — 
coupled  with  the  information  that  'this  place  is  like 
your  European  heaven;  there  is  neither  marrying  nor 
giving  in  marriage.' 

Gunga  Dass  had  been  educated  at  a  Mission  School, 
and,  as  he  himself  admitted,  had  he  only  changed  his 
religion  'like  a  wise  man/  might  have  avoided  the  liv- 
ing grave  which  was  now  his  portion.  But  as  long  as  I 
was  with  him  I  fancy  he  was  happy. 

Here  was  a  Sahib,  a  representative  of  the  dominant 
race,  helpless  as  a  child  and  completely  at  the  mercy  of 
his  native  neighbours.  In  a  deliberate  lazy  way  he  set 
himself  to  torture  me  as  a  schoolboy  would  devote  a 
rapturous  half-hour  to  watching  the  agonies  of  an  im- 
paled beetle,  or  as  a  ferret  in  a  blind  burrow  might 
glue  himself  comfortably  to  the  neck  of  a  rabbit.  The 
burden  of  his  conversation  was  that  there  was  no  escape 
'of  no  kind  whatever/  and  that  I  should  stay  here  till  I 
died  and  was  '  thrown  on  to  the  sand.'  If  it  were  possible 
to  forejudge  the  conversation  of  the  Damned  on  the 
advent  of  a  new  soul  in  their  abode,  I  should  say  that 
they  would  speak  as  Gunga  Dass  did  to  me  throughout 
that  long  afternoon.  I  was  powerless  to  protest  or 
answer;  all  my  energies  being  devoted  to  a  struggle 
against  the  inexplicable  terror  that  threatened  to  over- 
whelm me  again  and  again.  I  can  compare  the  feel- 
ing to  nothing  except  the  struggles  of  a  man  against 
the  overpowering  nausea  of  the  Channel  passage — 
only  my  agony  was  of  the  spirit  and  infinitely  more 
terrible. 

As  the  day  wore  on,  the  inhabitants  began  to  appear 
in  full  strength  to  catch  the  rays  of  the  afternoon  sun, 
which  were  now  sloping  in  at  the  mouth  of  the  crater. 
They  assembled  by  little  knots,  and  talked  among  them- 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE  107 

selves  without  even  throwing  a  glance  in  my  direction. 
About  four  o'clock,  so  far  as  I  could  judge,  Gunga  Dass 
rose  and  dived  into  his  lair  for  a  moment,  emerging  with 
a  live  crow  in  his  hands.  The  wretched  bird  was  in  a 
most  draggled  and  deplorable  condition,  but  seemed  to 
be  in  no  way  afraid  of  its  master.  Advancing  cau- 
tiously to  the  river-front,  Gunga  Dass  stepped  from 
tussock  to  tussock  until  he  had  reached  a  smooth  patch 
of  sand  directly  in  the  line  of  the  boat's  fire.  The  oc- 
cupants of  the  boat  took  no  notice.  Here  he  stopped, 
and,  with  a  couple  of  dexterous  turns  of  the  wrist, 
pegged  the  bird  on  its  back  with  outstretched  wings. 
As  was  only  natural,  the  crow  began  to  shriek  at  once 
and  beat  the  air  with  its  claws.  In  a  few  seconds  the 
clamour  had  attracted  the  attention  of  a  bevy  of  wild 
crows  on  a  shoal  a  few  hundred  yards  away,  where 
they  were  discussing  something  that  looked  like  a 
corpse.  Half  a  dozen  crows  flew  over  at  once  to  see 
what  was  going  on,  and  also,  as  it  proved,  to  attack  the 
pinioned  bird.  Gunga  Dass,  who  had  lain  down  on  a 
tussock,  motioned  to  me  to  be  quiet,  though  I  fancy 
this  was  a  needless  precaution.  In  a  moment,  and 
before  I  could  see  how  it  happened,  a  wild  crow,  who 
had  grappled  with  the  shrieking  and  helpless  bird,  was 
entangled  in  the  latter's  claws,  swiftly  disengaged  by 
Gunga  Dass,  and  pegged  down  beside  its  companion  in 
adversity.  Curiosity,  it  seemed,  overpowered  the  rest 
of  the  flock,  and  almost  before  Gunga  Dass  and  I  had 
time  to  withdraw  to  the  tussock,  two  more  captives  were 
struggling  in  the  upturned  claws  of  the  decoys.  So  the 
chase — if  I  can  give  it  so  dignified  a  name — continued 
until  Gunga  Dass  had  captured  seven  crows.  Five  of 
them  he  throttled  at  once,  reserving  two  for  further 
operations  another  day.  I  was  a  good  deal  impressed 


168  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

by  this,  to  me,  novel  method  of  securing  food,  and  com- 
plimented Gunga  Dass  on  his  skill. 

'It  is  nothing  to  do,'  said  he.  'To-morrow  you  must 
do  it  for  me.  You  are  stronger  than  I  am/ 

This  calm  assumption  of  superiority  upset  me  not  a 
little,  and  I  answered  peremptorily:  'Indeed,  you  old 
ruffian?  What  do  you  think  I  have  given  you  money 
for?' 

'Very  well,'  was  the  unmoved  reply.  'Perhaps  not 
to-morrow,  nor  the  day  after,  nor  subsequently;  but  in 
the  end,  and  for  many  years,  you  will  catch  crows  and 
eat  crows,  and  you  will  thank  your  European  God  that 
you  have  crows  to  catch  and  eat.' 

I  could  have  cheerfully  strangled  him  for  this;  but 
judged  it  best  under  the  circumstances  to  smother  my 
resentment.  An  hour  later  I  was  eating  one  of  the 
crows;  and,  as  Gunga  Dass  had  said,  thanking  my 
God  that  I  had  a  crow  to  eat.  Never  as  long  as  I  live 
shall  I  forget  that  evening  meal.  The  whole  population 
were  squatting  on  the  hard  sand  platform  opposite  their 
dens,  huddled  over  tiny  fires  of  refuse  and  dried  rushes. 
Death,  having  once  laid  his  hand  upon  these  men  and 
forborne  to  strike,  seemed  to  stand  aloof  from  them 
now;  for  most  of  our  company  were  old  men,  bent  and 
worn  and  twisted  with  years,  and  women  aged  to  all 
appearance  as  the  Fates  themselves.  They  sat  to- 
gether in  knots  and  talked — God  only  knows  what 
they  found  to  discuss — in  low  equable  tones,  curiously 
in  contrast  to  the  strident  babble  with  which  natives  are 
accustomed  to  make  day  hideous.  Now  and  then  an 
access  of  that  sudden  fury  which  had  possessed  me  in 
the  morning  would  lay  hold  on  a  man  or  woman;  and 
with  yells  and  imprecations  the  sufferer  would  attack  the 
steep  slope  until,  baffled  and  bleeding,  he  fell  back  on  the 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE  169 

platform  incapable  of  moving  a  limb.  The  others  would 
never  even  raise  their  eyes  when  this  happened,  as  men 
too  well  aware  of  the  futility  of  their  fellows'  attempts 
and  wearied  with  their  useless  repetition.  I  saw  four 
such  outbursts  in  the  course  of  that  evening. 

Gunga  Dass  took  an  eminently  business-like  view  of 
my  situation,  and  while  we  were  dining — I  can  afford 
to  laugh  at  the  recollection  now,  but  it  was  painful 
enough  at  the  time — propounded  the  terms  of  which 
he  would  consent  to  'do'  for  me.  My  nine  rupees 
eight  annas,  he  argued,  at  the  rate  of  three  annas  a 
day,  would  provide  me  with  food  for  fifty-one  days, 
or  about  seven  weeks;  that  is  to  say,  he  would  be  willing 
to  cater  for  me  for  that  length  of  time.  At  the  end  of  it 
I  was  to  look  after  myself.  For  a  further  consideration 
— videlicet  my  boots — he  would  be  willing  to  allow  me 
to  occupy  the  den  next  to  his  own,  and  would  supply 
me  with  as  much  dried  grass  for  bedding  as  he  could  spare. 

'Very  well,  Gunga  Dass,'  I  replied;  'to  the  first  terms 
I  cheerfully  agree,  but,  as  there  is  nothing  on  earth  to 
prevent  my  killing  you  as  you  sit  here  and  taking  every- 
thing that  you  have'  (I  thought  of  the  two  invaluable 
crows  at  the  time),  'I  flatly  refuse  to  give  you  my  boots 
and  shall  take  whichever  den  I  please.' 

The  stroke  was  a  bold  one,  and  I  was  glad  when  I  saw 
that  it  had  succeeded.  Gunga  Dass  changed  his  tone 
immediately,  and  disavowed  all  intention  of  asking  for 
my  boots.  At  the  time  it  did  not  strike  me  as  at  all 
strange  that  I,  a  Civil  Engineer,  a  man  of  thirteen 
years'  standing  in  the  Service,  and,  I  trust,  an  average 
Englishman,  should  thus  calmly  threaten  murder  and 
violence  against  the  man  who  had,  for  a  consideration 
it  is  true,  taken  me  under  his  wing.  I  had  left  the 
world,  it  seemed,  for  centuries.  I  was  as  certain  then 


170  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

as  I  am  now  of  my  own  existence,  that  in  the  accursed 
settlement  there  was  no  law  save  that  of  the  strongest; 
that  the  living  dead  men  had  thrown  behind  them 
every  canon  of  the  world  which  had  cast  them  out; 
and  that  I  had  to  depend  for  my  own  life  on  my  strength 
and  vigilance  alone.  The  crew  of  the  ill-fated  Mignonette 
are  the  only  men  who  would  understand  my  frame  of 
mind.  '  At  present/  I  argued  to  myself, '  I  am  strong  and 
a  match  for  six  of  these  wretches.  It  is  imperatively 
necessary  that  I  should,  for  my  own  sake,  keep  both 
health  and  strength  until  the  hour  of  my  release  comes — 
if  it  ever  does/ 

Fortified  with  these  resolutions,  I  ate  and  drank  as 
much  as  I  could,  and  made  Gunga  Dass  understand 
that  I  intended  to  be  his  master,  and  that  the  least  sign 
of  insubordination  on  his  part  would  be  visited  with  the 
only  punishment  I  had  it  in  my  power  to  inflict — sud- 
den and  violent  death.  Shortly  after  this  I  went  to 
bed.  That  is  to  say,  Gunga  Dass  gave  me  a  double 
armful  of  dried  bents  which  I  thrust  down  the  mouth 
of  the  lair  to  the  right  of  his,  and  followed  myself,  feet 
foremost;  the  hole  running  about  nine  feet  into  the 
sand  with  a  slight  downward  inclination,  and  being 
neatly  shored  with  timbers.  From  my  den,  which  faced 
the  river-front,  I  was  able  to  watch  the  waters  of  the 
Sutlej  flowing  past  under  the  light  of  a  young  moon 
and  compose  myself  to  sleep  as  best  I  might. 

The  horrors  of  that  night  I  shall  never  forget.  My 
den  was  nearly  as  narrow  as  a  coffin,  and  the  sides  had 
been  worn  smooth  and  greasy  by  the  contact  of  innu- 
merable naked  bodies,  added  to  which  it  smelt  abomi- 
nably. Sleep  was  altogether  out  of  the  question  to  one 
in  my  excited  frame  of  mind.  As  the  night  wore  on, 
it  seemed  that  the  entire  amphitheatre  was  filled  with 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE  171 

legions  of  unclean  devils  that,  trooping  up  from  the 
shoals  below,  mocked  the  unfortunates  in  their  lairs. 

Personally  I  am  not  of  an  imaginative  temperament 
— very  few  Engineers  are — but  on  that  occasion  I  was 
as  completely  prostrated  with  nervous  terror  as  any 
woman.  After  half  an  hour  or  so,  however,  I  was  able 
once  more  to  calmly  review  my  chances  of  escape.  Any 
exit  by  the  steep  sand  walls  was,  of  course,  impractica- 
ble. I  had  been  thoroughly  convinced  of  this  some 
time  before.  It  was  possible,  just  possible,  that  I  might, 
in  the  uncertain  moonlight,  safely  run  the  gauntlet  of  the 
rifle  shots.  The  place  was  so  full  of  terror  for  me  that 
I  was  prepared  to  undergo  any  risk  in  leaving  it.  Im- 
agine my  delight,  then,  when  after  creeping  stealthily 
to  the  river-front  I  found  that  the  infernal  boat  was  not 
there.  My  freedom  lay  before  me  in  the  next  few  steps! 

By  walking  out  to  the  first  shallow  pool  that  lay  at 
the  foot  of  the  projecting  left  horn  of  the  horseshoe,  I 
could  wade  across,  turn  the  flank  of  the  crater,  and  make 
my  way  inland.  Without  a  moment's  hesitation  I 
marched  briskly  past  the  tussocks  where  Gunga  Dass 
had  snared  the  crows,  and  out  in  the  direction  of  the 
smooth  white  sand  beyond.  My  first  step  from  the 
tufts  of  dried  grass  showed  me  how  utterly  futile  was 
any  hope  of  escape;  for,  as  I  put  my  foot  down,  I  felt 
an  indescribable  drawing,  sucking  motion  of  the  sand 
below.  Another  moment  and  my  leg  was  swallowed 
up  nearly  to  the  knee.  In  the  moonlight  the  whole 
surface  of  the  sand  seemed  to  be  shaken  with  devilish 
delight  at  my  disappointment.  I  struggled  clear,  sweat- 
ing with  terror  and  exertion,  back  to  the  tussocks  behind 
me  and  fell  on  my  face. 

My  only  means  of  escape  from  the  semicircle  was  pro- 
tected with  a  quicksand! 


172  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

How  long  I  lay  I  have  not  the  faintest  idea;  but  I 
was  roused  at  the  last  by  the  malevolent  chuckle  of 
Gunga  Dass  at  my  ear.  'I  would  advise  you,  Protec- 
tor of  the  Poor'  (the  ruffian  was  speaking  English)  'to 
return  to  your  house.  It  is  unhealthy  to  lie  down 
here.  Moreover,  when  the  boat  returns,  you  will  most 
certainly  be  rifled  at.'  He  stood  over  me  in  the  dim 
light  of  the  dawn,  chuckling  and  laughing  to  himself. 
Suppressing  my  first  impulse  to  catch  the  man  by  the 
neck  and  throw  him  on  to  the  quicksand,  I  rose  sullenly 
and  followed  him  to  the  platform  below  the  burrows. 

Suddenly,  and  futilely  as  I  thought  while  I  spoke,  I 
asked:  'Gunga  Dass,  what  is  the  good  of  the  boat  if 
I  can't  get  out  anyhow  ? '  I  recollect  that  even  in  my 
deepest  trouble  I  had  been  speculating  vaguely  on  the 
waste  of  ammunition  in  guarding  an  already  well  pro- 
tected fofeshore. 

Gunga  Dass  laughed  again  and  made  answer:  'They 
have  the  boat  only  in  daytime.  It  is  for  the  reason 
that  there  is  a  way.  I  hope  we  shall  have  the  pleasure 
of  your  company  for  much  longer  time.  It  is  a  pleas- 
ant spot  when  you  have  been  here  some  years  and  eaten 
roast  crow  long  enough.' 

I  staggered,  numbed  and  helpless,  towards  the  fetid 
burrow  allotted  to  me,  and  fell  asleep.  An  hour  or  so 
later  I  was  awakened  by  a  piercing  scream — the  shrill, 
high-pitched  scream  of  a  horse  in  pain.  Those  who 
have  once  heard  that  will  never  forget  the  sound.  I 
found  some  little  difficulty  in  scrambling  out  of  the 
burrow.  When  I  was  in  the  open,  I  saw  Pornic,  my  poor 
old  Pornic,  lying  dead  on  the  sandy  soil.  How  they  had 
killed  him  I  cannot  guess.  Gunga  Dass  explained  that 
horse  was  better  than  crow,  and  'greatest  good  of  great- 
est number  is  political  maxim.  We  are  now  Republic. 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE  173 

Mister  Jukes,  and  you  are  entitled  to  a  fair  share  of  the 
beast.  If  you  like  we  will  pass  a  vote  of  thanks.  Shall 
I  propose?' 

Yes,  we  were  a  Republic  indeed!  A  Republic  of  wild 
beasts  penned  at  the  bottom  of  a  pit,  to  eat  and  fight 
and  sleep  till  we  died.  I  attempted  no  protest  of  any 
kind,  but  sat  down  and  stared  at  the  hideous  sight  in 
front  of  me.  In  less  time  almost  than  it  takes  me  to 
write  this,  Forme's  body  was  divided,  in  some  unclean 
way  or  other;  the  men  and  women  ha^  dragged  the 
fragments  on  to  the  platform  and  were  preparing  their 
morning  meal.  Gunga  Dass  cooked  mine.  The  almost 
irresistible  .impulse  to  fly  at  the  sand  walls  until  I  was 
wearied  laid  hold  of  me  afresh,  and  I  had  to  struggle 
against  it  with  all  my  might.  Gunga  Dass  was  offen- 
sively jocular  till  I  told  him  that  if  he  addressed  another 
remark  of  any  kind  whatever  to  me  I  should  strangle 
him  where  he  sat.  This  silenced  him  till  silence  became 
insupportable,  and  I  bade  him  say  something. 

'You  will  live  here  till  you  die  like  the  other  Fe- 
ringhi,'  he  said  coolly,  watching  me  over  the  fragment 
of  gristle  that  he  was  gnawing. 

'What  other  Sahib,  you  swine?  Speak  at  once,  and 
don't  stop  to  tell  me  a  lie.' 

'He  is  over  there,'  answered  Gunga  Dass,  pointing 
to  a  burrow-mouth  about  four  doors  to  the  left  of  my 
own.  'You  can  see  for  yourself.  He  died  in  the  bur- 
row as  you  will  die,  and  I  will  die,  and  as  all  these  men 
and  women  and  the  one  child  will  also  die.' 

'For  pity's  sake  tell  me  all  you  know  about  him. 
Who  was  he?  When  did  he  come,  and  when  did  he  die? ' 

This  appeal  was  a  weak  step  on  my  part.  Gunga 
Dass  only  leered  and  replied:  'I  will  not — unless  you 
give  me  something  first/ 


174  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Then  I  recollected  where  I  was,  and  struck  the  man 
between  the  eyes,  partially  stunning  him.  He  stepped 
down  from  the  platform  at  once,  and,  cringing  and 
fawning  and  weeping  and  attempting  to  embrace  my 
feet,  led  me  round  to  the  burrow  which  he  had  in- 
dicated. 

'  I  know  nothing  whatever  about  the  gentleman.  Your 
God  be  my  witness  that  I  do  not.  He  was  as  anxious  to 
escape  as  you  were,  and  he  was  shot  from  the  boat,  though 
we  all  did  all  things  to  prevent  him  from  attempting.  He 
was  shot  here.'  Gunga  Dass  laid  his  hand  on  his  lean 
stomach  and  bowed  to  the  earth. 

'  Well,  and  what  then?   Go  on ! ' 

'And  then — and  then,  Your  Honour,  we  carried  him 
into  his  house  and  gave  him  water,  and  put  wet  cloths 
on  the  wound,  and  he  laid  down  in  his  house  and  gave  up 
the  ghost.' 

'  In  how  long?     In  how  long? ' 

'About  half  an  hour,  after  he  received  his  wound.  I 
call  Vishn  to  witness,'  yelled  the  wretched  man,  'that  I  did 
everything  for  him.  Everything  which  was  possible,  that 
I  did!' 

He  threw  himself  down  on  the  ground  and  clasped  my 
ankles.  But  I  had  my  doubts  about  Gunga  Dass's 
benevolence,  and  kicked  him  off  as  he  lay  protesting. 

'  I  believe  you  robbed  him  of  everything  he  had.  But  I 
can  find  out  in  a  minute  or  two.  How  long  was  the  Sahib 
here?' 

'Nearly  a  year  and  a  half.  I  think  he  must  have  gone 
mad.  But  hear  me  swear,  Protector  of  the  Poor!  Won't 
Your  Honour  hear  me  swear  that  I  never  touched  an 
article  that  belonged  to  him?  What  is  Your  Worship 
going  to  do? ' 

I  had  taken  Gunga  Dass  by  the  waist  and  had  hauled 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE  175 

Mm  on  to  the  platform  opposite  the  deserted  burrow.  As 
I  did  so  I  thought  of  my  wretched  fellow-prisoner's  un- 
speakable misery  among  all  these  horrors  for  eighteen 
months,  and  the  final  agony  of  dying  like  a  rat  hi  a  hole, 
with  a  bullet  wound  in  the  stomach.  Gunga  Dass  fancied 
I  was  going  to  kill  him  and  howled  pitifully.  The  rest  of 
the  population,  in  the  plethora  that  follows  a  full  flesh 
meal,  watched  us  without  stirring. 

'  Go  inside,  Gunga  Dass/  said  I, '  and  fetch  it  out.' 

I  was  feeling  sick  and  faint  with  horror  now.  Gunga 
Dass  nearly  rolled  off  the  platform  and  howled  aloud. 

'  But  I  am  Brahmin,  Sahib — a  high-caste  Brahmin.  By 
your  soul,  by  your  father's  soul,  do  not  make  me  do  this 
thing!' 

'Brahmin  or  no  Brahmin,  by  my  soul  and  my  father's 
soul,  in  you  go! '  I  said,  and,  seizing  him  by  the  shoulders, 
I  crammed  his  head  into  the  mouth  of  the  burrow,  kicked 
the  rest  of  him  in,  and,  sitting  down,  covered  my  face  with 
my  hands. 

At  the  end  of  a  few  minutes  I  heard  a  rustle  and  a  creak; 
then  Gunga  Dass  in  a  sobbing,  choking  whisper  speaking 
to  himself;  then  a  soft  thud — and  I  uncovered  my  eyes. 

The  dry  sand  had  turned  the  corpse  entrusted  to  its 
keeping  into  a  yellow-brown  mummy.  I  told  Gunga 
Dass  to  stand  off  while  I  examined  it.  The  body — clad  hi 
an  olive-green  hunting-suit  much  stained  and  worn,  with 
leather  pads  on  the  shoulders — was  that  of  a  man  be- 
tween thirty  and  forty,  above  middle  height,  with  light, 
sandy  hair,  long  moustache,  and  a  rough  unkempt  beard. 
The  left  canine  of  the  upper  jaw  was  missing,  and  a 
portion  of  the  lobe  of  the  right  ear  was  gone.  On  the 
second  finger  of  the  left  hand  was  a  ring — a  shield-shaped 
blood-stone  set  in  gold,  with  a  monogram  that  might  have 
been  either  ' B.  K.'  or  ' B.  L.'  On  the  third  finger  of  the 


176  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

right  hand  was  a  silver  ring  in  the  shape  of  a  coiled  cobra, 
much  worn  and  tarnished.  Gunga  Dass  deposited  a  hand- 
ful of  trifles  he  had  picked  out  of  the  burrow  at  my  feet, 
and,  covering  the  face  of  the  body  with  my  handkerchief, 
I  turned  to  examine  these.  I  give  the  full  list  in  the  hope 
that  it  may  lead  to  the  identification  of  the  unfortunate 
man: — 

1.  Bowl  of  a  briarwood  pipe,  serrated  at  the  edge; 
much  worn  and  blackened;  bound  with  string  at  the 
screw. 

2.  Two  patent-lever  keys;  wards  of  both  broken. 

3.  Tortoise-shell-handled  penknife,  silver  or  nickel, 
name-plated,  marked  with  monogram  'B.  K.' 

4.  Envelope,   postmark   undecipherable,   bearing   a 
Victorian  stamp,  addressed  to   'Miss  Mon —     '   (rest 
illegible)— 'ham'— 'nt> 

5.  Imitation   crocodile-skin   notebook   with   pencil. 
First  forty-five  pages  blank;  four  and  a  half  illegible; 
fifteen  others  filled  with  private  memoranda   relating 
chiefly  to  three  persons — a  Mrs.  L.  Singleton,  abbreviated 
several  times  to  'Lot  Single,'  'Mrs.  S.  May/  and  'Garmi- 
son,'  referred  to  in  places  as  'Jerry'  or  'Jack.' 

6.  Handle     of     small-sized     hunting-knife.      Blade 
snapped  short.     Buck's  horn,  diamond-cut,  with  swivel 
and  ring  on  the  butt;  fragment  of  cotton  cord  attached. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  I  inventoried  all  these 
things  on  the  spot  as  fully  as  I  have  here  written 
them  down.  The  notebook  first  attracted  my  atten- 
tion, and  I  put  it  in  my  pocket  with  a  view  to  study- 
ing it  later  on.  The  rest  of  the  articles  I  conveyed  to 
my  burrow  for  safety's  sake,  and  there,  being  a  method- 
ical man,  I  inventoried  them.  I  then  returned  to  the 
corpse  and  ordered  Gunga  Dass  to  help  me  to  carry 
it  out  to  the  river-front.  While  we  were  engaged  in 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE  177 

this,  the  exploded  shell  of  an  old  brown  cartridge 
dropped  out  of  one  of  the  pockets  and  rolled  at  my 
feet.  Gunga  Dass  had  not  seen  it;  and  I  fell  to  thinking 
that  a  man  does  not  carry  exploded  cartridge-cases, 
especially  'browns,'  which  will  not  bear  loading  twice, 
about  with  him  when  shooting.  In  other  words,  that 
cartridge-case  had  been  fired  inside  the  crater.  Conse- 
quently there  must  be  a  gun  somewhere.  I  was  on  the 
verge  of  asking  Gunga  Dass,  but  checked  myself,  knowing 
that  he  would  lie.  We  laid  the  body  down  on  the  edge  of 
the  quicksand  by  the  tussocks.  It  was  my  intention  to 
push  it  out  and  let  it  be  swallowed  up — the  only  possible 
mode  of  burial  that  I  could  think  of.  I  ordered  Gunga 
Dass  to  go  away. 

Then  I  gingerly  put  the  corpse  out  on  the  quicksand. 
In  doing  so,  it  was  lying  face  downward,  I  tore  the  frail 
and  rotten  khaki  shooting-coat  open,  disclosing  a  hideous 
cavity  in  the  back.  I  have  already  told  you  that  the  dry 
sand  had,  as  it  were,  mummified  the  body.  A  moment's 
glance  showed  that  the  gaping  hole  had  been  caused  by  a 
gunshot  wound;  the  gun  must  have  been  fired  with  the 
muzzle  almost  touching  the  back.  The  shooting-coat, 
being  intact,  had  been  drawn  over  the  body  after  death, 
which  must  have  been  instantaneous.  The  secret  of  the 
poor  wretch's  death  was  plain  to  me  in  a  flash.  Some  one 
of  the  crater,  presumably  Gunga  Dass,  must  have  shot 
him  with  his  own  gun — the  gun  that  fitted  the  brown 
cartridges.  He  had  never  attempted  to  escape  in  the  face 
of  the  rifle-fire  from  the  boat. 

I  pushed  the  corpse  out  hastily,  and  saw  it  sink  from 
sight  literally  in  a  few  seconds.  I  shuddered  as  I  watched. 
In  a  dazed,  half -conscious  way  I  turned  to  peruse 
the  notebook.  A  stained  and  discoloured  slip  of  paper 
bad  been  inserted  between  the  binding  and  the  back,  and 


178  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

dropped  out  as  I  opened  the  pages.  This  is  what  it  cor».> 
tained:  'Four  out  from  crow-clump;  three  left;  nine  out;  two 
right;  three  back;  two  left;  fourteen  out;  two  left;  seven  out; 
one  left;  nine  back;  two  right;  six  back;  four  right;  seven 
back.'  The  paper  had  been  burnt  and  charred  at  the 
edges.  What  it  meant  I  could  not  understand.  I  sat 
down  on  the  dried  bents  turning  it  over  and  over  between 
my  fingers,  until  I  was  aware  of  Gunga  Dass  standing 
immediately  behind  me  with  glowing  eyes  and  out- 
stretched hands. 

'Have  you  got  it?'  he  panted.  'Will  you  not  let  me 
look  at  it  also?  I  swear  that  I  will  return  it.' 

'  Got  what?    Return  what? '  I  asked. 

'That  which  you  have  in  your  hands.  It  will  help  us 
both.'  He  stretched  out  his  long,  bird-like  talons,  trem- 
bling with  eagerness. 

'I  could  never  find  it,'  he  continued.  'He  had  secreted 
it  about  his  person.  Therefore  I  shot  him,  but  neverthe- 
less I  was  unable  to  obtain  it.' 

Gunga  Dass  had  quite  forgotten  his  little  fiction  about 
the  rifle-bullet.  I  heard  him  calmly.  Morality  is 
blunted  by  consorting  with  the  Dead  who  are  alive. 

'What  on  earth  are  you  raving  about?  What  it  is  you 
want  me  to  give  you? ' 

'The  piece  of  paper  in  the  notebook.  It  will  help  us 
both.  Oh,  you  fool !  You  fool !  Can  you  not  see  what  it 
will  do  for  us?  We  shall  escape ! ' 

His  voice  rose  almost  to  a  scream,  and  he  danced  with 
excitement  before  me.  I  own  I  was  moved  at  the  chance 
of  getting  away. 

'Do  you  mean  to  say  that  this  slip  of  paper  will  help  us? 
What  does  it  mean? ' 

'Read  it  aloud!  Read  it  aloud!  I  beg  and  I  pray  to 
you  to  read  it  aloud.' 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE  179 

I  did  so.  Gunga  Dass  listened  delightedly,  and  drew 
an  irregular  line  in  the  sand  with  his  fingers. 

*  See  now !  It  was  the  length  of  his  gun-barrels  without 
the  stock.  I  have  those  barrels.  Four  gun-barrels  out 
from  the  place  where  I  caught  crows.  Straight  out;  do  you 
mind  me?  Then  three  left.  Ah !  Now  well  I  remember 
how  that  man  worked  it  out  night  after  night.  Then  nine 
out,  and  so  on.  Out  is  always  straight  before  you  across 
the  quicksand  to  the  North.  He  told  me  so  before  I  killed 
him.' 

'But  if  you  knew  all  this  why  didn't  you  get  out  be- 
fore?' 

'  I  did  not  know  it.  He  told  me  that  he  was  working  it 
out  a  year  and  a  half  ago,  and  how  he  was  working  it  out 
night  after  night  when  the  boat  had  gone  away,  and  he 
could  get  out  near  the  quicksand  safely.  Then  he  said 
that  we  would  get  away  together.  But  I  was  afraid  that  he 
would  leave  me  behind  one  night  when  he  had  worked  it 
all  out,  and  so  I  shot  him.  Besides,  it  is  not  advisable  that 
the  men  who  once  get  in  here  should  escape.  Only  I,  and 
/  am  a  Brahmin.' 

The  hope  of  escape  had  brought  Gunga  Dass's  caste 
back  to  him.  He  stood  up,  walked  about  and  gesticulated 
violently.  Eventually  I  managed  to  make  him  talk 
soberly,  and  he  told  me  how  this  Englishman  had  spent 
six  months  night  after  night  in  exploring,  inch  by  inch, 
the  passage  across  the  quicksand ;  how  he  had  declared  it 
to  be  simplicity  itself  up  to  within  about  twenty  yards  of 
the  river  bank  after  turning  the  flank  of  the  left  horn  of 
the  horseshoe.  This  much  he  had  evidently  not  com- 
pleted when  Gunga  Dass  shot  him  with  his  own  gun. 

In  my  frenzy  of  delight  at  the  possibilities  of  escape  I 
recollect  shaking  hands  wildly  with  Gunga  Dass,  after 
we  had  decided  that  we  were  to  make  an  attempt  to 


i8o  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

get  away  that  very  night.     It  was  weary  work  waiting 
throughout  the  afternoon. 

About  ten  o'clock,  as  far  as  I  could  judge,  when  the 
Moon  had  just  risen  above  the  lip  of  the  crater,  Gunga 
Dass  made  a  move  for  his  burrow  to  bring  out  the  gun- 
barrels  whereby  to  measure  our  path.  All  the  other 
wretched  inhabitants  had  retired  to  their  lairs  long  ago. 
The  guardian  boat  drifted  down-stream  some  hours  be- 
fore, and  we  were  utterly  alone  by  the  crow-clump. 
Gunga  Dass,  while  carrying  the  gun-barrels,  let  slip  the 
piece  of  paper  which  was  to  be  our  guide.  I  stooped 
down  hastily  to  recover  it,  and,  as  I  did  so,  I  was  aware 
that  the  creature  was  aiming  a  violent  blow  at  the  back  of 
my  head  with  the  gun-barrels.  It  was  too  late  to  turn 
round.  I  must  have  received  the  blow  somewhere  on  the 
nape  of  my  neck,  for  I  fell  senseless  at  the  edge  of  the 
quicksand. 

When  I  recovered  consciousness,  the  Moon  was  going 
down,  and  I  was  sensible  of  intolerable  pain  in  the  back 
of  my  head.  Gunga  Dass  had  disappeared  and  my 
mouth  was  full  of  blood.  I  lay  down  again  and  prayed 
that  I  might  die  without  more  ado.  Then  the  unrea- 
soning fury  which  I  have  before  mentioned  laid  hold 
upon  me,  and  I  staggered  inland  towards  the  walls  of 
the  crater.  It  seemed  that  some  one  was  calling  to  me 
in  a  whisper — 'Sahib!  Sahib!  Sahib!'  exactly  as  my 
bearer  used  to  call  me  in  the  mornings.  I  fancied  that 
I  was  delirious  until  a  handful  of  sand  fell  at  my  feet. 
Then  I  looked  up  and  saw  a  head  peering  down  into 
the  amphitheatre — the  head  of  Dunnoo,  my  dog-boy, 
who  attended  to  my  collies.  As  soon  as  he  had  at- 
tracted my  attention,  he  held  up  his  hand  and  showed 
a  rope.  I  motioned,  staggering  to  and  fro  the  while, 
that  he  should  throw  it  down.  It  was  a  couple  of 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE  181 

leather  punkah  ropes  knotted  together,  with  a  loop  at 
one  end.  I  slipped  the  loop  over  my  head  and  under 
my  arms;  heard  Dunnoo  urge  something  forward;  was 
conscious  that  I  was  being  dragged,  face  downward,  up 
the  steep  sand-slope,  and  the  next  instant  found  myself 
choked  and  half-fainting  on  the  sand  hills  overlooking 
the  crater.  Dunnoo,  with  his  face  ashy  gray  in  the 
moonlight,  implored  me  not  to  stay  but  to  get  back  to 
my  tent  at  once. 

It  seems  that  he  had  tracked  Forme's  footprints  four- 
teen miles  across  the  sands  to  the  crater;  had  returned 
and  told  my  servants,  who  flatly  refused  to  meddle  with 
any  one,  white  or  black,  once  fallen  into  the  hideous 
Village  of  the  Dead;  whereupon  Dunnoo  had  taken 
one  of  my  ponies  and  a  couple  of  punkah  ropes,  re- 
turned to  the  crater,  and  hauled  me  out  as  I  have  de- 
scribed. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING 

Brother  to  a  Prince  and  fellow  to  a  beggar  if  he  be  found  worthy. 

THE  Law,  as  quoted,  lays  down  a  fair  conduct  of  life, 
and  one  not  easy  to  follow.  I  have  been  fellow  to  a 
beggar  again  and  again  under  circumstances  which  pre- 
vented either  of  us  finding  out  whether  the  other  was 
worthy.  I  have  still  to  be  brother  to  a  Prince,  though 
I  once  came  near  to  kinship  with  what  might  have  been 
a  veritable  King  and  was  promised  the  reversion  of  a 
Kingdom — army,  law-courts,  revenue  and  policy  all 
complete.  But,  to-day,  I  greatly  fear  that  my  King 
is  dead,  and  it  I  want  a  crown  I  must  go  hunt  it  for 
myself. 

The  beginning  of  everything  was  in  a  railway  train 
upon  the  road  to  Mhow  from  Ajmir.  There  had  been 
a  Deficit  in  the  Budget,  which  necessitated  travelling, 
not  Second-class,  which  is  only  half  as  dear  as  First- 
class,  but  by  Intermediate,  which  is  very  awful  indeed. 
There  are  no  cushions  in  the  Intermediate  class,  and  the 
population  are  either  Intermediate,  which  is  Eurasian, 
or  native,  which  for  a  long  night  journey  is  nasty,  or 
Loafer,  which  is  amusing  though  intoxicated.  Inter- 
mediates do  not  buy  from  refreshment-rooms.  They 
carry  their  food  in  bundles  and  pots,  and  buy  sweets 
from  the  native  sweetmeat-sellers,  and  drink  the  roadside 
water.  That  is  why  in  hot  weather  Intermediates  are 
taken  out  of  the  carriages  dead,  and  in  all  weathers  are 
most  properly  looked  down  upon. 

182 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  183 

My  particular  Intermediate  happened  to  be  empty  till 
I  reached  Nasirabad,  when  a  big  black-browed  gentle- 
man in  shirt-sleeves  entered,  and,  following  the  custom 
of  Intermediates,  passed  the  time  of  day.  He  was  a 
wanderer  and  a  vagabond  like  myself,  but  with  an 
educated  taste  for  whiskey.  He  told  tales  of  things 
he  had  seen  and  done,  of  out-of-the-way  corners  of 
the  Empire  into  which  he  had  penetrated,  and  of  ad- 
ventures in  which  he  risked  his  life  for  a  few  days' 
food. 

'If  India  was  filled  with  men  like  you  and  me,  not 
knowing  more  than  the  crows  where  they'd  get  their 
next  day's  rations,  it  isn't  seventy  millions  of  revenue 
the  land  would  be  paying — it's  seven  hundred  millions,' 
said  he;  and  as  I  looked  at  his  mouth  and  chin  I  was 
disposed  to  agree  with  him. 

We  talked  politics — the  politics  of  Loaferdom  that 
sees  things  from  the  underside  where  the  lath  and  plaster 
is  not  smoothed  off — and  we  talked  postal  arrangements 
because  my  friend  wanted  to  send  a  telegram  back  from 
the  next  station  to  Ajmir,  the  turning-off  place  from  the 
Bombay  to  the  Mhow  line  as  you  travel  westward.  My 
friend  had  no  money  beyond  eight  annas  which  he 
wanted  for  dinner,  and  I  had  no  money  at  all,  owing  to 
the  hitch  in  the  Budget  before  mentioned.  Further,  I 
was  going  into  a  wilderness  where,  though  I  should  re- 
sume touch  with  the  Treasury,  there  were  no  telegraph 
offices.  I  was,  therefore,  unable  to  help  him  in  any  way. 

'We  might  threaten  a  Station-master,  and  make  him 
send  a  wire  on  tick/  said  my  friend,  'but  that'd  mean 
enquiries  for  you  and  for  me,  and  /'ve  got  my  hands 
full  these  days.  Did  you  say  you  were  travelling  back 
along  this  line  within  any  days?' 

'Within  ten,'  I  said. 


i84  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

'  Can't  you  make  it  eight?'  said  he.  '  Mine  is  rather 
urgent  business.' 

'  I  can  send  your  telegram  within  ten  days  if  that  will 
serve  you,'  I  said. 

'I  couldn't  trust  the  wire  to  fetch  him  now  I  think 
of  it.  It's  this  way.  He  leaves  Delhi  on  the  23rd  for 
Bombay.  That  means  he'll  be  running  through  Ajmir 
about  the  night  of  the  23rd.' 

'But  I'm  going  into  the  Indian  Desert,'  I  explained. 

'Well  and  good/  said  he.  'You'll  be  changing  at  Mar- 
war  Junction  to  get  into  Jodhpore  territory — you  must 
do  that — and  he'll  be  coming  through  Marwar  Junction 
in  the  early  morning  of  the  24th  by  the  Bombay  Mail, 
Can  you  be  at  Marwar  Junction  on  that  time?  'Twon't 
be  inconveniencing  you  because  I  know  that  there's  pre 
cious  few  pickings  to  be  got  out  of  these  Central  India 
States — even  though  you  pretend  to  be  correspondent  of 
the  Backwoodsman' 

'Have  you  ever  tried  that  trick?'  I  asked. 

'Again  and  again,  but  the  Residents  find  you  out, 
and  then  you  get  escorted  to  the  Border  before  you've 
time  to  get  your  knife  into  them.  But  about  my  friend 
here.  I  must  give  him  a  word  o'  mouth  to  tell  him 
what's  come  to  me  or  else  he  won't  know  where  to  go. 
I  would  take  it  more  than  kind  of  you  if  you  was  to  come 
out  of  Central  India  in  time  to  catch  him  at  Marwar 
Junction,  and  say  to  him:  "He  has  gone  South  for  the 
week."  He'll  know  what  that  means.  He's  a  big  man 
with  a  red  beard,  and  a  great  swell  he  is.  You'll  find 
him  sleeping  like  a  gentleman  with  all  his  luggage  round 
him  in  a  Second-class  apartment.  But  don't  you  be 
afraid.  Slip  down  the  window  and  say:  "He  has  gone 
South  for  the  week,"  and  he'll  tumble.  It's  only  cut- 
ting your  time  of  stay  in  those  parts  by  two  days.  I  ask 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  185 

you  as  a  stranger — going  to  the  West,'  he  said  with  em- 
phasis. 

*  Where  have  you  come  from?'  said  I. 

'From  the  East,'  said  he,  'and  I  am  hoping  that  you 
will  give  him  the  message  on  the  Square — for  the  sake  of 
my  Mother  as  well  as  your  own.' 

Englishmen  are  not  usually  softened  by  appeals  to 
the  memory  of  their  mothers;  but  for  certain  reasons, 
which  will  be  fully  apparent,  I  saw  fit  to  agree. 

'It's  more  than  a  little  matter,'  said  he,  'and  that's 
why  I  asked  you  to  do  it — and  now  I  know  that  I  can 
depend  on  you  doing  it.  A  Second-class  carriage  at 
Marwar  Junction,  and  a  red-haired  man  asleep  in  it. 
You'll  be  sure  to  remember.  I  get  out  at  the  next  sta- 
tion, and  I  must  hold  on  there  till  he  comes  or  sends  me 
what  I  want.' 

'I'll  give  the  message  if  I  catch  him/  I  said,  'and 
for  the  sake  of  your  Mother  as  well  as  mine  I'll  give 
you  a  word  of  advice.  Don't  try  to  run  the  Central 
India  States  just  now  as  the  correspondent  of  the  Back- 
woodsman. There's  a  real  one  knocking  about  here,  and 
it  might  lead  to  trouble.' 

'Thank  you,'  said  he  simply,  'and  when  will  the 
swine  be  gone?  I  can't  starve  because  he's  ruining  my 
work.  I  wanted  to  get  hold  of  the  Degumber  Rajah  down 
here  about  his  father's  widow,  and  give  him  a  jump.' 

'What  did  he  do  to  his  father's  widow,  then?' 

'Filled  her  up  with  red  pepper  and  slippered  her 
to  death  as  she  hung  from  a  beam.  I  found  that  out 
myself  and  I'm  the  only  man  that  would  dare  going  into 
the  State  to  get  hush-money  for  it.  They'll  try  to 
poison  me,  same  as  they  did  in  Chortumna  when  I  went 
on  the  loot  there.  But  you'll  give  the  man  at  Marwar 
Junction  my  message?' 


186  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

He  got  out  at  a  little  roadside  station,  and  I  reflected. 
I  had  heard,  more  than  once,  of  men  personating  corre- 
spondents of  newspapers  and  bleeding  small  Native 
States  with  threats  of  exposure,  but  I  had  never  met 
any  of  the  caste  before.  They  lead  a  hard  life,  and 
generally  die  with  great  suddenness.  The  Native 
States  have  a  wholesome  horror  of  English  newspapers, 
which  may  throw  light  on  their  peculiar  methods  of 
government,  and  do  their  best  to  choke  correspondents 
with  champagne,  or  drive  them  out  of  their  mind  with 
four-in-hand  barouches.  They  do  not  understand  that 
nobody  cares  a  straw  for  the  internal  administration  of 
Native  States  so  long  as  oppression  and  crime  are  kept 
within  decent  limits,  and  the  ruler  is  not  drugged,  drunk, 
or  diseased  from  one  end  of  the  year  to  the  other.  They 
are  the  dark  places  of  the  earth,  full  of  unimaginable 
cruelty,  touching  the  Railway  and  the  Telegraph  on  one 
side,  and,  on  the  other,  the  days  of  Harun-al-Raschid. 
When  I  left  the  train  I  did  business  with  divers  Kings, 
and  in  eight  days  passed  through  many  changes  of  life. 
Sometimes  I  wore  dress-clothes  and  consorted  with  Princes 
and  Politicals,  drinking  from  crystal  and  eating  from  sil- 
ver. Sometimes  I  lay  out  upon  the  ground  and  de- 
voured what  I  could  get,  from  a  plate  made  of  leaves, 
and  drank  the  running  water,  and  slept  under  the  same 
rug  as  my  servant.  It  was  all  in  the  day's  work. 

Then  I  headed  for  the  Great  Indian  Desert  upon 
the  proper  date,  as  I  had  promised,  and  the  night  Mail 
set  me  down  at  Marwar  Junction,  where  a  funny  little, 
happy-go-lucky,  native-managed  railway  runs  to  Jodh- 
pore.  The  Bombay  Mail  from  Delhi  makes  a  short 
halt  at  Marwar.  She  arrived  as  I  got  in,  and  I  had  just 
time  to  hurry  to  her  platform  and  go  down  the  carriages. 
There  was  only  one  Second-class  on  the  train.  I  slipped 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  187 

the  window  and  looked  down  upon  a  flaming  red  beard, 
half  covered  by  a  railway  rug.  That  was  my  man,  fast 
asleep,  and  I  dug  him  gently  in  the  ribs.  He  woke  with  a 
grunt  and  I  saw  his  face  in  the  light  of  the  lamps.  It 
was  a  great  and  shining  face. 

'Tickets  again?'  said  he. 

'No,'  said  I.  'I  am  to  tell  you  that  he  is  gone  South 
for  the  week.  He  has  gone  South  for  the  week!' 

The  train  had  begun  to  move  out.  The  red  man 
rubbed  his  eyes.  'He  has  gone  South  for  the  week,' 
he  repeated.  'Now  that's  just  like  his  impidence. 
Did  he  say  that  I  was  to  give  you  anything?  'Cause  I 
won't.' 

'He  didn't,'  I  said  and  dropped  away,  and  watched 
the  red  lights  die  out  in  the  dark.  It  was  horribly 
cold  because  the  wind  was  blowing  off  the  sands.  I 
climbed  into  my  own  train — not  an  Intermediate  car- 
riage this  time — and  went  to  sleep. 

If  the  man  with  the  beard  had  given  me  a  rupee 
I  should  have  kept  it  as  a  memento  of  a  rather  curious 
affair.  But  the  consciousness  of  having  done  my  duty 
was  my  only  reward. 

Later  on  I  reflected  that  two  gentlemen  like  my 
friends  could  not  do  any  good  if  they  foregathered  and 
personated  correspondents  of  newspapers,  and  might, 
if  they  black-mailed  one  of  the  little  rat-trap  states  of 
Central  India  or  Southern  Rajputana,  get  themselves 
into  serious  difficulties.  I  therefore  took  some  trouble 
to  describe  them  as  accurately  as  I  could  remember  to 
people  who  would  be  interested  in  deporting  them:  and 
succeeded,  so  I  was  later  informed,  in  having  them  headed 
back  from  the  Degumber  borders. 

Then  I  became  respectable,  and  returned  to  an  Office 
where  there  were  no  Kings  and  no  incidents  outside  the 


x88  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

daily  manufacture  of  a  newspaper.  A  newspaper  office 
seems  to  attract  every  conceivable  sort  of  person,  to  the 
prejudice  of  discipline.  Zenana-mission  ladies  arrive, 
and  beg  that  the  Editor  will  instantly  abandon  all  his 
duties  to  describe  a  Christian  prize-giving  in  a  back-slum 
of  a  perfectly  inaccessible  village;  Colonels  who  have  been 
overpassed  for  command  sit  down  and  sketch  the  outline 
of  a  series  of  ten,  twelve,  or  twenty-four  leading  articles 
on  Seniority  versus  Selection;  missionaries  wish  to  know 
why  they  have  not  been  permitted  to  escape  from  their 
regular  vehicles  of  abuse  and  swear  at  a  brother-mission- 
ary under  special  patronage  of  the  editorial  We;  stranded 
theatrical  companies  troop  up  to  explain  that  they  can- 
not pay  for  their  advertisements,  but  on  their  return  from 
New  Zealand  or  Tahiti  will  do  so  with  interest;  inventors 
of  patent  punkah-pulling  machines,  carriage  couplings 
and  unbreakable  swords  and  axle-trees  call  with  specifica~ 
tions  in  their  pockets  and  hours  at  their  disposal;  tea- 
companies  enter  and  elaborate  their  prospectuses  with  the 
office  pens;  secretaries  of  ball-committees  clamour  to  have 
the  glories  of  their  last  dance  more  fully  described;  strange 
ladies  rustle  in  and  say:  'I  want  a  hundred  lady's  cards 
printed  at  once,  please/  which  is  manifestly  part  of  an 
Editor's  duty;  and  every  dissolute  ruffian  that  ever 
tramped  the  Grand  Trunk  Road  makes  it  his  business  to 
ask  for  employment  as  a  proof-reader.  And,  all  the  time, 
the  telephone-bell  is  ringing  madly,  and  Kings  are  being 
killed  on  the  Continent,  and  Empires  are  saying — 'You're 
another/  and  Mister  Gladstone  is  calling  down  brimstone 
upon  the  British  Dominions,  and  the  little  black  copy- 
boys  are  whining,  'kaa-pi  chay-ha-yeh'  (copy  wanted) 
like  tired  bees,  and  most  of  the  paper  is  as  blank  as 
Modred's  shield. 
But  that  is  the  amusing  part  of  the  year.  There  are 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  189 

six  other  months  when  none  ever  come  to  call,  and  the 
thermometer  walks  inch  by  inch  up  to  the  top  of  the  glass, 
and  the  office  is  darkened  to  just  above  reading-light,  and 
the  press-machines  are  red-hot  to  touch,  and  nobody 
writes  anything  but  accounts  of  amusements  in  the  Hill- 
stations  or  obituary  notices.  Then  the  telephone  becomes 
a  tinkling  terror,  because  it  tells  you  of  the  sudden  deaths 
of  men  and  women  that  you  knew  intimately,  and  the 
prickly  heat  covers  you  with  a  garment,  and  you  sit  down 
and  write:  'A  slight  increase  of  sickness  is  reported  from 
the  Khuda  Janta  Khan  District.  The  outbreak  is  purely 
sporadic  in  its  nature,  and,  thanks  to  the  energetic  efforts 
of  the  District  authorities,  is  now  almost  at  an  end. 
It  is,  however,  with  deep  regret  we  record  the  death/ 
etc. 

Then  the  sickness  really  breaks  out,  and  the  less  re- 
cording and  reporting  the  better  for  the  peace  of  the  sub- 
scribers. But  the  Empires  and  the  Kings  continue  to 
divert  themselves  as  selfishly  as  before,  and  the  Foreman 
thinks  that  a  daily  paper  really  ought  to  come  out  once  in 
twenty-four  hours,  and  all  the  people  at  the  Hill-stations 
in  the  middle  of  their  amusements  say:  'Good  gracious! 
Why  can't  the  paper  be  sparkling?  I'm  sure  there's 
plenty  going  on  up  here/ 

That  is  the  dark  half  of  the  moon,  and,  as  the  adver- 
tisements say,  'must  be  experienced  to  be  appreciated.' 

It  was  in  that  season,  and  a  remarkably  evil  season, 
that  the  paper  began  running  the  last  issue  of  the  week  on 
Saturday  night,  which  is  to  say  Sunday  morning,  after  the 
custom  of  a  London  paper.  This  was  a  great  convenience, 
for  immediately  after  the  paper  was  put  to  bed,  the  dawn 
would  lower  the  thermometer  from  96°  to  almost  84°  for 
half  an  hour,  and  in  that  chill — you  have  no  idea  how 
cold  is  84°  on  the  grass  until  you  begin  to  pray  for  it — a 


igo  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

very  tired  man  could  get  off  to  sleep  ere  the  heat  roused 
him. 

One  Saturday  night  it  was  my  pleasant  duty  to  put  the 
paper  to  bed  alone.  A  King  or  courtier  or  a  courtesan  or 
a  Community  was  going  to  die  or  get  a  new  Constitution, 
or  do  something  that  was  important  on  the  other  side  of 
the  world,  and  the  paper  was  to  be  held  open  till  the 
latest  possible  minute  in  order  to  catch  the  telegram. 

It  was  a  pitchy  black  night,  as  stifling  as  a  June  night 
can  be,  and  the  loo,  the  red-hot  wind  from  the  westward, 
was  booming  among  the  tinder-dry  trees  and  pretending 
that  the  rain  was  on  its  heels.  Now  and  again  a  spot  of 
almost  boiling  water  would  fall  on  the  dust  with  the  flop 
of  a  frog,  but  all  our  weary  world  knew  that  was  only 
pretence.  It  was  a  shade  cooler  in  the  press-room  than 
the  office,  so  I  sat  there,  while  the  type  ticked  and  clicked, 
and  the  night-jars  hooted  at  the  windows,  and  the  all  but 
naked  compositors  wiped  the  sweat  from  their  foreheads, 
and  called  for  water.  The  thing  that  was  keeping  us 
back,  whatever  it  was,  would  not  come  off,  though  the  loo 
dropped  and  the  last  type  was  set,  and  the  whole  round 
earth  stood  still  in  the  choking  heat,  with  its  finger  on  its 
lip,  to  wait  the  event.  I  drowsed,  and  wondered  whether 
the  telegraph  was  a  blessing,  and  whether  this  dying  man, 
or  struggling  people,  might  be  aware  of  the  inconvenience 
the  delay  was  causing.  There  was  no  special  reason  be- 
yond the  heat  and  worry  to  make  tension,  but,  as  the 
clock-hands  crept  up  to  three  o'clock  and  the  machines 
spun  their  fly- wheels  two  and  three  times  to  see  that  all  was 
in  order,  before  I  said  the  word  that  would  set  them  off,  I 
could  have  shrieked  aloud. 

Then  the  roar  and  rattle  of  the  wheels  shivered  the 
quiet  into  little  bits.  I  rose  to  go  away,  but  two  men  in 
white  clothes  stood  in  front  of  me.  The  first  one  said: 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  191 

'  It's  him !'  The  second  said :  '  So  it  is ! '  And  they  both 
laughed  almost  as  loudly  as  the  machinery  roared,  and 
mopped  their  foreheads.  'We  seed  there  was  a  light 
burning  across  the  road  and  we  were  sleeping  in  that  ditch 
there  for  coolness,  and  I  said  to  my  friend  here,  The  office 
is  open.  Let's  come  along  and  speak  to  him  as  turned  us 
back  from  the  Degumber  State,'  said  the  smaller  of  the 
two.  He  was  the  man  I  had  met  in  the  Mhow  train,  and 
his  fellow  was  the  red-bearded  man  of  Marwar  Junction. 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  eyebrows  of  the  one  or  the 
beard  of  the  other. 

I  was  not  pleased,  because  I  wished  to  go  to  sleep,  not 
to  squabble  with  loafers.  'What  do  you  want?'  I  asked. 

'Half  an  hour's  talk  with  you,  cool  and  comfortable,  in 
the  office,'  said  the  red-bearded  man.  'We'd  like  some 
drink — the  Contrack  doesn't  begin  yet,  Peachey,  so  you 
needn't  look — but  what  we  really  want  is  advice.  We 
don't  want  money.  We  ask  you  as  a  favour,  because  we 
found  out  you  did  us  a  bad  turn  about  Degumber 
State.' 

I  led  from  the  press-room  to  the  stifling  office  with  the 
maps  on  the  walls,  and  the  red-haired  man  rubbed  his 
hands.  'That's  something  like,' said  he.  'This  was  the 
proper  shop  to  come  to.  Now,  Sir,  let  me  introduce  to 
vou  Brother  Peachey  Carnehan,  that's  him,  and  Brother 
Daniel  Dravot,  that  is  me,  and  the  less  said  about  our 
professions  the  better,  for  we  have  been  most  things  in  our 
time.  Soldier,  sailor,  compositor,  photographer,  proof- 
reader, street-preacher,  and  correspondents  of  the  Back- 
woodsman when  we  thought  the  paper  wanted  one. 
Carnehan  is  sober,  and  so  am  I.  Look  at  us  first,  and  see 
that's  sure.  It  will  save  you  cutting  into  my  talk.  We'll 
take  one  of  your  cigars  apiece,  and  you  shall  see  us  light 
up.' 


192  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

I  watched  the  test.  The  men  were  absolutely  sober,  so 
I  gave  them  each  a  tepid  whiskey  and  soda. 

'  Well  and  good/  said  Carnehan  of  the  eyebrows,  wiping 
the  froth  from  his  moustache.  'Let  me  talk  now,  Dan. 
We  have  been  all  over  India,  mostly  on  foot.  We  have 
been  boiler-fitters,  engine-drivers,  petty  contractors,  and 
all  that,  and  we  have  decided  that  India  isn't  big  enough 
for  such  as  us.' 

They  certainly  were  too  big  for  the  office.  Dravot's 
beard  seemed  to  fill  half  the  room  and  Carnehan's 
shoulders  the  other  half,  as  they  sat  on  the  big  table. 
Carnehan  continued:  'The  country  isn't  half  worked  out 
because  they  that  governs  it  won't  let  you  touch  it.  They 
spend  all  their  blessed  time  in  governing  it,  and  you  can't 
lift  a  spade,  nor  chip  a  rock,  nor  look  for  oil,  nor  anything 
like  that  without  all  the  Government  saying — "Leave  it 
alone,  and  let  us  govern."  Therefore,  such  as  it  is,  we  will 
let  it  alone,  and  go  away  to  some  other  place  where  a  man 
isn't  crowded  and  can  come  to  his  own.  We  are  not  little 
men,  and  there  is  nothing  that  we  are  afraid  of  except 
Drink,  and  we  have  signed  a  Contrack  on  that.  Tliere- 
fore,  we  are  going  away  to  be  Kings.' 

'Kings  in  our  own  right,'  muttered  Dravot. 

'Yes,  of  course/  I  said.  'You've  been  tramping  in  the 
sun,  and  it's  a  very  warm  night,  and  hadn't  you  better 
sleep  over  the  notion?  Come  to-morrow.' 

'Neither  drunk  nor  sunstruck/  said  Dravot.  '  We  have 
slept  over  the  notion  half  a  year,  and  require  to  see  Books 
and  Atlases,  and  we  have  decided  that  there  is  only  one 
place  now  in  the  world  that  two  strong  men  can  Sar-a- 
whack.  They  call  it  Kafiristan.  By  my  reckoning  it's  the 
top  right-hand  corner  of  Afghanistan,  not  more  than 
three  hundred  miles  from  Peshawar.  They  have  two- 
and-thirty  heathen  idols  there,  and  we'll  be  the  thirty- 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  193 

third  and  fourth.  It's  a  mountaineous  country,  and  the 
women  of  those  parts  are  very  beautiful.' 

'But  that  is  provided  against  in  the  Contrack/  said 
Carnehan.  '  Neither  Woman  nor  Liqu-or,  Daniel.' 

'And  that's  all  we  know,  except  that  no  one  has  gone 
there,  and  they  fight,  and  in  any  place  where  they  fight  a 
man  who  knows  how  to  drill  men  can  always  be  a  King. 
We  shall  go  to  those  parts  and  say  to  any  King  we  find — 
"D'you  want  to  vanquish  your  foes?"  and  we  will  show 
him  how  to  drill  men;  for  that  we  know  better  than  any- 
thing else.  Then  we  will  subvert  that  King  and  seize  his 
Throne  and  establish  a  Dy-nasty.' 

'You'll  be  cut  to  pieces  before  you're  fifty  miles  across 
the  Border,'  I  said.  'You  have  to  travel  through  Afghan- 
istan to  get  to  that  country.  It's  one  mass  of  mountains 
and  peaks  and  glaciers,  and  no  Englishman  has  been 
through  it.  The  people  are  utter  brutes,  and  even  if  you 
reached  them  you  couldn't  do  anything.' 

'  That's  more  like,'  said  Carnehan.  '  If  you  could  think 
us  a  little  more  mad  we  would  be  more  pleased.  We  have 
come  to  you  to  know  about  this  country,  to  read  a  book 
about  it,  and  to  be  shown  maps.  We  want  you  to  tell  us 
that  we  are  fools  and  to  show  us  your  books.'  He  turned 
to  the  book-cases. 

'Are  you  at  all  in  earnest? '  I  said. 

'A  little,'  said  Dravot  sweetly.  'As  big  a  map  as  you 
have  got,  even  if  it's  all  blank  where  Kafiristan  is,  and  any 
books  you've  got.  We  can  read,  though  we  aren't  very 
educated.' 

I  uncased  the  big  thirty-two-miles-to-the-inch  map  of 
India,  and  two  smaller  Frontier  maps,  hauled  down  vol- 
ume INF-KAN  of  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica,  and  the 
men  consulted  them. 

'  See  here ! '  said  Dravot,  his  thumb  on  the  map.    '  Up  to 


194  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Jagdallak,  Peachey  and  me  know  the  road.  We  was  there 
with  Roberts'  Army.  We'll  have  to  turn  off  to  the  right 
at  Jagdallak  through  Laghmann  territory.  Then  we  get 
among  the  hills — fourteen  thousand  feet — fifteen  thou- 
sand— it  will  be  cold  work  there,  but  it  don't  look  very  far 
on  the  map.' 

I  handed  him  Wood  on  the  Sources  of  the  Oxus.  Carne- 
han  was  deep  in  the  Encyclopedia. 

'They're  a  mixed  lot,'  said  Dravot  reflectively;  'and  it 
won't  help  us  to  know  the  names  of  their  tribes.  The 
more  tribes  the  more  they'll  fight,  and  the  better  for  us. 
From  Jagdallak  to  Ashang.  H'mm ! ' 

'  But  all  the  information  about  the  country  is  as  sketchy 
and  inaccurate  as  can  be/  I  protested.  'No  one  knows 
anything  about  it  really.  Here's  the  file  of  the  United 
Services'  Institute.  Read  what  Bellew  says.' 

'Blow  Bellew ! '  said  Carnehan.  ' Dan,  they're  a  stinkin' 
lot  of  heathens,  but  this  book  here  says  they  think  they're 
related  to  us  English.' 

I  smoked  while  the  men  pored  over  Raverty,  Wood,  the 
maps,  and  the  Encyclopedia. 

'There  is  no  use  your  waiting,'  said  Dravot  politely. 
'It's  about  four  o'clock  now.  We'll  go  before  six  o'clock 
if  you  want  to  sleep,  and  we  won't  steal  any  of  the 
papers.  Don't  you  sit  up.  We're  two  harmless  lunatics, 
and  if  you  come  to-morrow  evening  down  to  the  Serai 
we'll  say  good-bye  to  you.' 

'You  are  two  fools/  I  answered.  'You'll  be  turned 
back  at  the  Frontier  or  cut  up  the  minute  you  set  foot 
in  Afghanistan.  Do  you  want  any  money  or  a  rec- 
ommendation down-country?  I  can  help  you  to  the 
chance  of  work  next  week.' 

'Next  week  we  shall  be  hard  at  work  ourselves,  thank 
you/  said  Dravot.  'It  isn't  so  easy  being  a  King  as  it 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  195 

looks.  When  we've  got  our  Kingdom  in  going  order 
we'll  let  you  know,  and  you  can  come  up  and  help  us  to 
govern  it.' 

'Would  two  lunatics  make  a  Contrack  like  that?' 
said  Carnehan,  with  subdued  pride,  showing  me  a 
greasy  half-sheet  of  notepaper  on  which  was  written 
the  following.  I  copied  it,  then  and  there,  as  a  curi- 
osity— 

This  Contract  between  me  and  you  persuing  witnesseth 
in  the  name  of  God — Amen  and  so  forth. 

(One)  That  me  and  you  will  settle  this  matter  to- 
gether; i.e.,  to  be  Kings  of  Kafiristan. 

(Two)  That  you  and  me  will  not,  while  this  matter 
is  being  settled,  look  at  any  Liquor,  nor 
any  Woman  black,  white,  or  brown,  so  as 
to  get  mixed  up  with  one  or  the  other  harm- 
ful 

(Three)      That    we    conduct    ourselves    with    Dignity 
and  Discretion,  and  if  one  of  us  gets  into 
trouble  the  other  will  stay  by  him. 
Signed  by  you  and  me  this  day. 

Peachey  Taliaferro  Carnehan. 

Daniel  Drawl. 

Both  Gentlemen  at  Large. 

'There  was  no  need  for  the  last  article/  said  Carne- 
han, blushing  modestly;  'but  it  looks  regular.  Now 
you  know  the  sort  of  men  that  loafers  are — we  are 
loafers,  Dan,  until  we  get  out  of  India — and  do  you 
think  that  we  would  sign  a  Contrack  like  that  unless 
we  was  in  earnest?  We  have  kept  away  from  the  two 
things  that  make  life  worth  having.' 


196  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

'You  won't  enjoy  your  lives  much  longer  if  you  are 
going  to  try  this  idiotic  adventure.  Don't  set  the  office 
on  fire,'  I  said,  'and  go  away  before  nine  o'clock.' 

I  left  them  still  poring  over  the  maps  and  making 
notes  on  the  back  of  the  'Contrack.'  'Be  sure  to  come 
down  to  the  Serai  to-morrow,'  were  their  parting  words. 

The  Kumharsen  Serai  is  the  great  four-square  sink  of 
humanity  where  the  strings  of  camels  and  horses  from 
the  North  load  and  unload.  All  the  nationalities  of 
Central  Asia  may  be  found  there,  and  most  of  the 
folk  of  India  proper.  Balkh  and  Bokhara  there  meet 
Bengal  and  Bombay,  and  try  to  draw  eye-teeth.  You 
can  buy  ponies,  turquoises,  Persian  pussy-cats,  saddle- 
bags, fat-tailed  sheep  and  musk  in  the  Kumharsen 
Serai,  and  get  many  strange  things  for  nothing.  In 
the  afternoon  I  went  down  to  see  whether  my  friends 
intended  to  keep  their  word  or  were  lying  there  drunk. 

A  priest  attired  in  fragments  of  ribbons  and  rags 
stalked  up  to  me,  gravely  twisting  a  child's  paper  whirli- 
gig. Behind  him  was  his  servant  bending  under  the 
load  of  a  crate  of  mud  toys.  The  two  were  loading  up 
two  camels,  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  Serai  watched 
them  with  shrieks  of  laughter. 

'The  priest  is  mad,'  said  a  horse-dealer  to  me.  'He 
is  going  up  to  Kabul  to  sell  toys  to  the  Amir.  He  will 
either  be  raised  to  honour  or  have  his  head  cut  off.  He 
came  in  here  this  morning  and  has  been  behaving  madly 
ever  since.' 

'The  witless  are  under  the  protection  of  God,'  stam- 
mered a  flat-cheeked  Usbeg  in  broken  Hindi.  'They 
foretell  future  events.' 

'Would  they  could  have  foretold  that  my  caravan 
would  have  been  cut  up  by  the  Shinwaris  almost  within 
shadow  of  the  Pass!'  grunted  the  Eusufzai  agent  of  a 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  197 

Rajputana  trading-house  whose  goods  had  been  diverted 
into  the  hands  of  other  robbers  just  across  the  Border, 
and  whose  misfortunes  were  the  laughing-stock  of  the 
bazar.  '  Ohe,  priest,  whence  come  you  and  whither  do 
you  go? ' 

'From  Roum  have  I  come/  shouted  the  priest,  wav- 
ing his  whirligig;  'from  Roum,  blown  by  the  breath  of 
a  hundred  devils  across  the  sea!  O  thieves,  robbers, 
liars,  the  blessing  of  Pir  Khan  on  pigs,  dogs,  and  per- 
jurers! Who  will  take  the  Protected  of  God  to  the 
North  to  sell  charms  that  are  never  still  to  the  Amir? 
The  camels  shall  not  gall,  the  sons  shall  not  fall  sick, 
and  the  wives  shall  remain  faithful  while  they  are  away, 
of  the  men  who  give  me  place  in  their  caravan.  Who 
will  assist  me  to  slipper  the  King  of  the  Roos  with  a 
golden  slipper  with  a  silver  heel?  The  protection  of 
Pir  Khan  be  upon  his  labours!'  He  spread  out  the 
skirts  of  his  gaberdine  and  pirouetted  between  the  lines 
of  tethered  horses. 

'There  starts  a  caravan  from  Peshawar  to  Kabul 
in  twenty  days,  Huzrut,'  said  the  Eusufzai  trader.  'My 
camels  go  therewith.  Do  thou  also  go  and  bring  us 
good-luck.' 

'I  will  go  even  now!'  shouted  the  priest.  'I  will 
depart  upon  my  winged  camels,  and  be  at  Peshawar  in  a 
day.'  Ho!  Hazar  Mir  Khan/  he  yelled  to  his  servant, 
*  drive  out  the  camels,  but  let  me  first  mount  my  own/ 

He  leaped  on  the  back  of  his  beast  as  it  knelt,  and, 
turning  round  to  me,  cried:  'Come  thou  also,  Sahib,  a 
little  along  the  road,  and  I  will  sell  thee  a  charm — an 
amulet  that  shall  make  thee  King  of  Kafiristan.' 

Then  the  light  broke  upon  me,  and  "I  followed  the 
two  camels  out  of  the  Serai  till  we  reached  open  road 
and  the  priest  halted. 


198  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

'What  d'you  think  o'  that?'  said  he  in  English. 
'Carnehan  can't  talk  their  patter,  so  I've  made  him  my 
servant.  He  makes  a  handsome  servant.  "Tisn't  for 
nothing  that  I've  been  knocking  about  the  country  for 
fourteen  years.  Didn't  I  do  that  talk  neat?  We'll 
hitch  on  to  a  caravan  at  Peshawar  till  we  get  to  Jag- 
dallak,  and  then  we'll  see  if  we  can  get  donkeys  for  our 
camels,  and  strike  into  Kafiristan.  Whirligigs  for  the 
Amir,  O  Lor!  Put  your  hand  under  the  camel-bags 
and  tell  me  what  you  feel/ 

I  felt  the  butt  of  a  Martini,  and  another  and  another. 

'Twenty  of  'em/  said  Dravot  placidly.  'Twenty  of 
Jem  and  ammunition  to  correspond,  under  the  whirli- 
gigs and  the  mud  dolls.' 

'Heaven  help  you  if  you  are  caught  with  those  things!' 
I  said.  'A  Martini  is  worth  her  weight  in  silver  among 
the  Pathans.' 

'Fifteen  hundred  rupees  of  capital — every  rupee  we 
could  beg,  borrow,  or  steal — are  invested  on  these  two 
camels,'  said  Dravot.  'We  won't  get  caught.  We're 
going  through  the  Khaiber  with  a  regular  caravan. 
Who'd  touch  a  poor  mad  priest?' 

'Have  you  got  everything  you  want?'  I  asked,  over- 
come with  astonishment. 

'Not  yet,  but  we  shall  soon.  Give  us  a  memento  of 
your  kindness,  Brother.  You  did  me  a  service,  yester- 
day, and  that  time  in  Marwar.  Half  my  Kingdom  shall 
you  have,  as  the  saying  is.'  I  slipped  a  small  charm 
compass  from  my  watch  chain  and  handed  it  up  to  the 
priest. 

'Good-bye,'  said  Dravot,  giving  me  hand  cautiously. 
'It's  the  last  time  we'll  shake  hands  with  an  English- 
man these  many  days.  Shake  hands  with  him,  Carne- 
han,'  he  cried,  as  the  second  camel  passed  me. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  igg 

Carnehan  leaned  down  and  shook  hands.  Then  the 
camels  passed  away  along  the  dusty  road,  and  I  was 
left  alone  to  wonder.  My  eye  could  detect  no  failure 
in  the  disguises.  The  scene  in  the  Serai  proved  that  they 
were  complete  to  the  native  mind.  There  was  just  the 
chance,  therefore,  that  Carnehan  and  Dravot  would  be 
able  to  wander  through  Afghanistan  without  detection. 
But,  beyond,  they  would  find  death — certain  and  aw- 
ful death. 

Ten  days  later  a  native  correspondent  giving  me  the 
news  of  the  day  from  Peshawar,  wound  up  his  letter 
with:  'There  has  been  much  laughter  here  on  account 
of  a  certain  mad  priest  who  is  going  in  his  estimation 
to  sell  petty  gauds  and  insignificant  trinkets  which  he 
ascribes  as  great  charms  to  H.H.  the  Amir  of  Bok- 
hara. He  passed  through  Peshawar  and  associated 
himself  to  the  Second  Summer  caravan  that  goes  to 
Kabul.  The  merchants  are  pleased  because  through 
superstition  they  imagine  that  such  mad  fellows  bring 
good-fortune.' 

The  two,  then,  were  beyond  the  Border.  I  would 
have  prayed  for  them,  but,  that  night,  a  real  King  died 
in  Europe,  and  demanded  an  obituary  notice. 


The  wheel  of  the  world  swings  through  the  same 
phases  again  and  again.  Summer  passed  and  winter 
thereafter,  and  came  and  passed  again.  The  daily 
paper  continued  and  I  with  it,  and  upon  the  third 
summer  there  fell  a  hot  night,  a  night-issue,  and  a 
strained  waiting  for  something  to  be  telegraphed  from 
the  other  side  of  the  world,  exactly  as  had  happened 
before.  A  few  great  men  had  died  in  the  past  two 
years,  the  machines  worked  with  more  clatter,  and 


200  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

some  of  the  trees  in  the  Office  garden  were  a  few  feet 
taller.  But  that  was  all  the  difference. 

I  passed  over  to  the  press-room,  and  went  through 
just  such  a  scene  as  I  have  already  described.  The 
nervous  tension  was  stronger  than  it  had  been  two 
years  before,  and  I  felt  the  heat  more  acutely.  At 
three  o'clock  I  cried,  'Print  off,'  and  turned  to  go, 
when  there  crept  to  my  chair  what  was  left  of  a  man. 
He  was  bent  into  a  circle,  his  head  was  sunk  between 
his  shoulders,  and  he  moved  his  feet  one  over  the  other 
like  a  bear.  I  could  hardly  see  whether  he  walked  or 
crawled — this  rag-wrapped,  whining  cripple  who  ad- 
dressed me  by  name,  crying  that  he  was  come  back. 
'Can  you  give  me  a  drink?'  he  whimpered.  'For  the 
Lord's  sake,  give  me  a  drink ! ' 

I  went  back  to  the  office,  the  man  following  with 
groans  of  pain,  and  I  turned  up  the  lamp. 

'Don't  you  know  me?'  he  gasped,  dropping  into  a 
chair,  and  he  turned  his  drawn  face,  surmounted  by  a 
shock  of  gray  hair,  to  the  light. 

I  looked  at  him  intently.  Once  before  had  I  seen 
eyebrows  that  met  over  the  nose  in  an  inch-broad  black 
band,  but  for  the  life  of  me  I  could  not  tell  where. 

'I  don't  know  you,'  I  said,  handing  him  the  whiskey. 
'What  can  I  do  for  you?' 

He  took  a  gulp  of  the  spirit  raw,  and  shivered  in 
spite  of  the  suffocating  heat. 

'I've  come  back/  he  repeated;  'and  I  was  the  King 
of  Kafiristan — me  and  Dravot — crowned  Kings  we  was  I 
In  this  office  we  settled  it — you  setting  there  and  giving 
us  the  books.  I  am  Peachey — Peachey  Taliaferro  Carne- 
han,  and  you've  been  setting  here  ever  since — O  Lord! ' 

I  was  more  than  a  little  astonished,  and  expressed 
my  feelings  accordingly. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  201 

'It's  true,'  said  Carnehan,  with  a  dry  cackle,  nursing 
his  feet,  which  were  wrapped  in  rags.  'True  as  gos- 
pel. Kings  we  were,  with  crowns  upon  our  heads — 
me  and  Dravot — poor  Dan — oh,  poor,  poor  Dan,  that 
would  never  take  advice,  not  though  I  begged  of  him!' 

'Take  the  whiskey/  I  said,  'and  take  your  own 
time.  Tell  me  all  you  can  recollect  of  everything 
from  beginning  to  end.  You  got  across  the  border 
on  your  camels,  Dravot  dressed  as  a  mad  priest  and 
you  his  servant.  Do  you  remember  that?' 

'I  ain't  mad — yet,  but  I  shall  be  that  way  soon.  Of 
course  I  remember.  Keep  looking  at  me,  or  maybe  my 
words  will  go  all  to  pieces.  Keep  looking  at  me  in  my 
eyes  and  don't  say  anything.' 

I  leaned  forward  and  looked  into  his  face  as  steadily 
as  I  could.  He  dropped  one  hand  upon  the  table  and 
I  grasped  it  by  the  wrist.  It  was  twisted  like  a  bird's 
claw,  and  upon  the  back  was  a  ragged,  red,  diamond- 
shaped  scar. 

'No,  don't  look  there.  Look  at  me,'  said  Carnehan. 
'  That  comes  afterwards,  but  for  the  Lord's  sake  don't  dis- 
track  me.  We  left  with  that  caravan,  me  and  Dravot 
playing  all  sorts  of  antics  to  amuse  the  people  we  were 
with.  Dravot  used  to  make  us  laugh  in  the  evenings 
when  all  the  people  was  cooking  their  dinners — cooking 
their  dinners,  and  .  .  .  what  did  they  do  then? 
They  lit  little  fires  with  sparks  that  went  into  Dravot's 
beard,  and  we  all  laughed — fit  to  die.  Little  red  fires  they 
was,  going  into  Dravot's  big  red  beard — so  funny.'  His 
eyes  left  mine  and  he  smiled  foolishly. 

'You  went  as  far  as  Jagdallak  with  that  caravan,'  I 
said  at  a  venture,  'after  you  had  lit  those  fires.  To  Jag- 
dallak, where  you  turned  off  to  try  to  get  into  Kafiristan.' 

'No,  we  didn't  neither.    What  are  you  talking  about? 


202  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

We  turned  off  before  Jagdallak,  because  we  heard  the 
roads  was  good.  But  they  wasn't  good  enough  for  our 
two  camels — mine  and  Dravot's.  When  we  left  the  cara- 
van, Dravot  took  off  all  his  clothes  and  mine  too,  and  said 
we  would  be  heathen,  because  the  Kafirs  didn't  allow 
Mohammedans  to  talk  to  them.  So  we  dressed  betwixt 
and  between,  and  such  a  sight  as  Daniel  Dravot  I  never 
saw  yet  nor  expect  to  see  again.  He  burned  half  his 
beard,  and  slung  a  sheep-skin  over  his  shoulder,  and 
shaved  his  head  into  patterns.  He  shaved  mine,  too,  and 
made  me  wear  outrageous  things  to  look  like  a  heathen. 
That  was  in  a  most  mountaineous  country,  and  our 
camels  couldn't  go  along  any  more  because  of  the 
mountains.  They  were  tall  and  black,  and  coming  home 
I  saw  them  fight  like  wild  goats — there  are  lots  df  goats  in 
Kafiristan.  And  these  mountains,  they  never  keep  still, 
no  more  than  the  goats.  Always  fighting  they  are,  and 
don't  let  you  sleep  at  night.' 

'Take  some  more  whiskey,'  I  said  very  slowly.  'What 
did  you  and  Daniel  Dravot  do  when  the  camels  could  go 
no  further  because  of  the  rough  roads  that  led  into 
Kafiristan?' 

'  What  did  which  do?  There  was  a  party  called  Peachey 
Taliaferro  Carnehan  that  was  with  Dravot.  Shall  I  tell 
you  about  him?  He  died  out  there  in  the  cold.  Slap  from 
the  bridge  fell  old  Peachey,  turning  and  twisting  in  the 
air  like  a  penny  whirligig  that  you  can  sell  to  the  Amir. — 
No;  they  was  two  for  three  ha'pence,  those  whirligigs,  or  I 
am  much  mistaken  and  woeful  sore.  .  .  .  And  then 
these  camels  were  no  use,  and  Peachey  said  to  Dravot— 
"For  the  Lord's  sake  let's  get  out  of  this  before  our  heads 
are  chopped  off,"  and  with  that  they  killed  the  camels  all 
among  the  mountains,  not  having  anything  in  particular 
to  eat,  but  first  they  took  off  the  boxes  with  the  guns  and 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  203 

the  ammunition,  till  two  men  came  along  driving  four 
mules.  Dravot  up  and  dances  in  front  of  them,  singing — 
"Sell  me  four  mules."  Says  the  first  man — "If  you  are 
rich  enough  to  buy,  you  are  rich  enough  to  rob;"  but  be- 
fore ever  he  could  put  his  hand  to  his  knife,  Dravot  breaks 
his  neck  over  his  knee,  and  the  other  party  runs  away.  So 
Carnehan  loaded  the  mules  with  the  rifles  that  was  taken 
off  the  camels,  and  together  we  starts  forward  into  those 
bitter  cold  mountaineous  parts,  and  never  a  road  broader 
than  the  back  of  your  hand.' 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  while  I  asked  him  if  he  could 
remember  the  nature  of  the  country  through  which  he  had 
journeyed. 

'  I  am  telling  you  as  straight  as  I  can,  but  my  head  isn't 
as  good  as  it  might  be.  They  drove  nails  through  it  to 
make  me  hear  better  how  Dravot  died.  The  country  was 
mountaineous  and  the  mules  were  most  contrary,  and  the 
inhabitants  was  dispersed  and  solitary.  They  went  up 
and  up,  and  down  and  down,  and  that  other  party,  Carne- 
han, was  imploring  of  Dravot  not  to  sing  and  whistle  so 
loud,  for  fear  of  bringing  down  the  tremenjus  avalanches. 
But  Dravot  says  that  if  a  King  couldn't  sing  it  wasn't 
worth  being  King,  and  whacked  the  mules  over  the  rump, 
and  never  took  no  heed  for  ten  cold  days.  We  came  to  a 
big  level  valley  all  among  the  mountains,  and  the  mules 
were  near  dead,  so  we  killed  them,  not  having  anything  in 
special  for  them  or  us  to  eat.  We  sat  upon  the  boxes,  and 
played  odd  and  even  with  the  cartridges  that  was  jolted 
out. 

'Then  ten  men  with  bows  and  arrows  ran  down  that 
valley,  chasing  twenty  men  with  bows  and  arrows,  and 
the  row  was  tremenjus.  They  was  fair  men — fairer  than 
you  or  me — with  yellow  hair  and  remarkable  well  built. 
Says  Dravot,  unpacking  the  guns — "This is  the  beginning 


204  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

of  the  business.  We'll  fight  for  the  ten  men,"  and  with 
that  he  fires  two  rifles  at  the  twenty  men,  and  drops  one 
of  them  at  two  hundred  yards  from  the  rock  where  he  was 
sitting.  The  other  men  began  to  run,  but  Carnehan  and 
Dravot  sits  on  the  boxes  picking  them  off  at  all  ranges,  up 
and  down  the  valley.  Then  we  goes  up  to  the  ten  men  that 
had  run  across  the  snow  too,  and  they  fires  a  footy  little 
arrow  at  us.  Dravot  he  shoots  above  their  heads  and 
they  all  falls  down  flat.  Then  he  walks  over  them  and 
kicks  them,  and  then  he  lifts  them  up  and  shakes  hands  all 
round  to  make  them  friendly  like.  He  calls  them  and 
gives  them  the  boxes  to  carry,  and  waves  his  hand  for  all 
the  world  as  though  he  was  King  already.  They  takes 
the  boxes  and  him  across  the  valley  and  up  the  hill  into  a 
pine  wood  on  the  top,  where  there  was  half  a  dozen  big 
stone  idols.  Dravot  he  goes  to  the  biggest — a  fellow  they 
call  Imbra — and  lays  a  rifle  and  a  cartridge  at  his  feet, 
rubbing  his  nose  respectful  with  his  own  nose,  patting  him 
on  the  head,  and  saluting  in  front  of  it.  He  turns  round 
to  the  men  and  nods  his  head,  and  says — "That's  all 
right.  I'm  in  the  know  too,  and  all  these  old  jim-jams  arc 
my  friends."  Then  he  opens  his  mouth  and  points  down 
it,  and  when  the  first  man  brings  him  food,  he  says — 
"No;"  and  when  the  second  man  brings  him  food  he  says 
— "No;"  but  when  one  of  the  old  priests  and  the  boss  of 
the  village  brings  him  food,  he  says — "Yes;"  very 
haughty,  and  eats  it  slow.  That  was  how  we  came  to  our 
first  village,  without  any  trouble,  just  as  though  we  had 
tumbled  from  the  skies.  But  we  tumbled  from  one  of 
those  damned  rope-bridges,  you  see  and — you  couldn't 
expect  a  man  to  laugh  much  after  that? ' 

'Take  some  more  whiskey  and  go  on,'  I  said.  'That 
was  the  first  village  you  came  into.  How  did  you  get  to 
-be  King?' 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  205 

'I  wasn't  King/  said  Carnehan.  'Dravot  he  was  the 
King,  and  a  handsome  man  he  looked  with  the  gold  crown 
on  his  head  and  all.  Him  and  the  other  party  stayed  in 
that  village,  and  every  morning  Dravot  sat  by  the  side  of 
old  Imbra,  and  the  people  came  and  worshipped.  That 
was  Dravot's  order.  Then  a  lot  of  men  came  into  the 
valley,  and  Carnehan  Dravot  picks  them  off  with  the 
rifles  before  they  knew  where  they  was,  and  runs  down 
into  the  valley  and  up  again  the  other  side  and  finds  an- 
other village,  same  as  the  first  one,  and  the  people  all  falls 
down  flat  on  their  faces,  and  Dravot  says — "Now  what  is 
the  trouble  between  you  two  villages?"  and  the  people 
points  to  a  woman,  as  fair  as  you  or  me,  that  was  carried 
off,  and  Dravot  takes  her  back  to  the  first  village  and 
counts  up  the  dead — eight  there  was.  For  each  dead  man 
Dravot  pours  a  little  milk  on  the  ground  and  waves  his 
arms  like  a  whirligig  and  "That's  all  right,"  says  he. 
Then  he  and  Carnehan  takes  the  big  boss  of  each  village 
by  the  arm  and  walks  them  down  into  the  valley,  and 
shows  them  how  to  scratch  a  line  with  a  spear  right  down 
the  valley,  and  gives  each  a  sod  of  turf  from  both  sides  of 
the  line.  Then  all  the  people  comes  down  and  shouts 
like  the  devil  and  all,  and  Dravot  says — "  Go  and  dig  the 
land,  and  be  fruitful  and  multiply,"  which  they  did, 
though  they  didn't  understand.  Then  we  asks  the  names 
of  things  in  their  lingo — bread  and  water  and  fire  and 
idols  and  such,  and  Dravot  leads  the  priest  of  each  village 
up  to  the  idol,  and  says  he  must  sit  there  and  judge  the 
people,  and  if  anything  goes  wrong  he  is  to  be  shot. 

'Next  week  they  was  all  turning  up  the  land  in  the 
valley  as  quiet  as  bees  and  much  prettier,  and  the  priests 
heard  all  the  complaints  and  told  Dravot  in  dumb  show 
what  it  was  about.  "That's  just  the  beginning,"  says 
Dravot.  "They  think  we're  Gods."  He  and  Carnehan 


206  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

picks  out  twenty  good  men  and  shows  them  how  to  dick 
off  a  rifle,  and  form  fours,  and  advance  in  line,  and  they  was 
very  pleased  to  do  so,  and  clever  to  see  the  hang  of  it. 
Then  he  takes  out  his  pipe  and  his  baccy-pouch  and  leaves 
one  at  one  village,  and  one  at  the  other,  and  off  we  two 
goes  to  see  what  was  to  be  done  in  the  next  valley.  That 
was  all  rock,  and  there  was  a  little  village  there,  and  Car- 
nehan  says — "Send  'em  to  the  old  valley  to  plant,"  and 
takes  'em  there  and  gives  'em  some  land  that  wasn't 
took  before.  They  were  a  poor  lot,  and  we  blooded 
'em  with  a  kid  before  letting  'em  into  the  new  King- 
dom. That  was  to  impress  the  people,  and  then  they 
settled  down  quiet,  and  Carnehan  went  back  to  Dravot 
who  had  got  into  another  valley,  all  snow  and  ice  and 
most  mountaineous.  There  was  no  people  there  and  the 
Army  got  afraid,  so  Dravot  shoots  one  of  them,  and  goes 
on  till  he  finds  some  people  in  a  village,  and  the  Army  ex- 
plains that  unless  the  people  wants  to  be  killed  they  had 
better  not  shoot  their  little  matchlocks;  for  they  had 
matchlocks.  We  makes  friends  with  the  priest  and  I  stays 
there  alone  with  two  of  the  Army,  teaching  the  men  how 
to  drill,  and  a  thundering  big  Chief  comes  across  the  snow 
with  kettle-drums  and  horns  twanging,  because  he  heard 
there  was  a  new  God  kicking  about.  Carnehan  sights  for 
the  brown  of  the  men  half  a  mile  across  the  snow  and 
wings  one  of  them.  Then  he  sends  a  message  to  the 
Chief  that,  unless  he  wished  to  be  killed,  he  must  come  and 
shake  hands  with  me  and  leave  his  arms  behind.  The 
Chief  comes  alone  first,  and  Carnehan  shakes  hands  with 
him  and  whirls  his  arms  about,  same  as  Dravot  used,  and 
very  much  surprised  that  Chief  was,  and  strokes  my  eye- 
brows. Then  Carnehan  goes  alone  to  the  Chief,  and  asks 
him  in  dumb  show  if  he  had  an  enemy  he  hated.  "I 
have,"  says  the  Chief.  So  Carnehan  weeds  out  the  pick 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  207 

of  his  men,  and  sets  the  two  of  the  Army  to  show  them 
drill  and  at  the  end  of  two  weeks  the  men  can  manoeuvre 
about  as  well  as  Volunteers.  So  he  marches  with  the 
Chief  to  a  great  big  plain  on  the  top  of  a  mountain,  and 
the  Chief's  men  rushes  into  a  village  and  takes  it;  we  three 
Martinis  firing  into  the  brown  of  the  enemy.  So  we  took 
that  village  too,  and  I  gives  the  Chief  a  rag  from  my  coat 
and  says,  "Occupy  till  I  come;"  which  was  scriptural.  By 
way  of  a  reminder,  when  me  and  the  Army  was  eighteen 
hundred  yards  away,  I  drops  a  bullet  near  him  standing 
on  the  snow,  and  all  the  people  falls  flat  on  their  faces. 
Then  I  sends  a  letter  to  Dravot  wherever  he  be  by  land  or 
by  sea.' 

At  the  risk  of  throwing  the  creature  out  of  train  I  in- 
terrupted— 'How  could  you  write  a  letter  up  yonder?' 

'The  letter?— Oh!— The  letter!  Keep  looking  at  me 
between  the  eyes,  please.  It  was  a  string-talk  letter,  that 
we'd  learned  the  way  of  it  from  a  blind  beggar  in  the 
Punjab.' 

I  remember  that  there  had  once  come  to  the  office  a 
blind  man  with  a  knotted  twig  and  a  piece  of  string  which 
he  wound  round  the  twig  according  to  some  cipher  of  his 
own.  He  could,  after  the  lapse  of  days  or  hours,  repeat 
the  sentence  which  he  had  reeled  up.  He  had  reduced  the 
alphabetito  eleven  primitive  sounds;  and  tried  to  teachme 
his  method,  but  I  could  not  understand. 

'I  sent  that  letter  to  Dravot/  said  Carnehan;  'and 
told  him  to  come  back  because  this  Kingdom  was 
growing  too  big  for  me  to  handle,  and  then  I  struck  for 
the  first  valley,  to  see  how  the  priosts  were  working. 
They  called  the  village  we  took  along  with  the  Chief, 
Bashkai,  and  the  first  village  we  took,  Er-Heb.  The 
priests  at  Er-Heb  was  doing  all  right,  but  they  had  a 
lot  of  pending  cases  about  land  to  show  me,  and  some 


2o8  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

men  from  another  village  had  been  firing  arrows  at 
night.  I  went  out  and  looked  for  that  village,  and 
fired  four  rounds  at  it  from  a  thousand  yards.  That 
used  all  the  cartridges  I  cared  to  spend,  and  I  waited 
for  Dravot,  who  had  been  away  two  or  three  months, 
and  I  kept  my  people  quiet. 

'One  morning  I  heard  the  devil's  own  noise  of  drums 
and  horns,  and  Dan  Dravot  marches  down  the  hill  with 
his  Army  and  a  tail  of  hundreds  of  men,  and,  which  was 
the  most  amazing,  a  great  gold  crown  on  his  head.  "My 
Gord,  Carnehan,"  says  Daniel,  "this  is  a  tremenjus 
business,  and  we've  got  the  whole  country  as  far  as  it's 
worth  having.  I  am  the  son  of  Alexander  by  Queen 
Semiramis,  and  you're  my  younger  brother  and  a  God 
too!  It's  the  biggest  thing  we've  ever  seen.  I've  been 
marching  and  fighting  for  six  weeks  with  the  Army,  and 
every  footy  little  village  for  fifty  miles  has  come  in  re- 
joiceful;  and  more  than  that,  I've  got  the  key  of  the 
whole  show,  as  you'll  see,  and  I've  got  a  crown  for  you! 
I  told  'em  to  make  two  of  'em  at  a  place  called  Shu, 
where  the  gold  lies  in  the  rock  like  suet  in  mutton.  Gold 
I've  seen,  and  turquoise  I've  kicked  out  of  the  cliffs, 
and  there's  garnets  in  the  sands  of  the  river,  and  here's 
a  chunk  of  amber  that  a  man  brought  me.  Call  up  all 
the  priests  and,  here,  take  your  crown." 

'One  of  the  men  opens  a  black  hair  bag,  and  I  slips 
the  crown  on.  It  was  too  small  and  too  heavy,  but  I 
wore  it  for  the  glory.  Hammered  gold  it  was — five 
pound  weight,  like  a  hoop  of  a  barrel. 

'"Peachey,"  says  Dravot,  "we  don't  want  to  fight 
no  more.  The  Craft's  the  trick  so  help  me!"  and  he 
brings  forward  that  same  Chief  that  I  left  at  Bashkai 
—Billy  Fish  we  called  him  afterwards,  because  he  was 
so  like  Billy  Fish  that  drove  the  big  tank-engine  at 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  209 

Mach  on  the  Bolan  in  the  old  days.  "Shake  hands 
with  him,"  says  Dravot,  and  I  shook  hands  and  nearly 
dropped,  for  Billy  Fish  gave  me  the  Grip.  I  said  noth- 
ing, but  tried  him  with  the  Fellow  Craft  Grip.  He 
answers,  all  right,  and  I  tried  the  Master's  Grip,  but 
that  was  a  slip.  "A  Fellow  Craft  he  is!"  I  says  to  Dan. 
"Does  he  know  the  word?" — "He  does,"  says  Dan,  "and 
all  the  priests  know.  It's  a  miracle.  The  Chiefs  and  the 
priests  can  work  a  Fellow  Craft  Lodge  in  a  way  that's 
very  like  ours,  and  they've  cut  the  marks  on  the  rocks, 
but  they  don't  know  the  Third  Degree,  and  they've  come 
to  find  out.  It's  Gord's  Truth.  I've  known  these  long 
years  that  the  Afghans  knew  up  to  the  Fellow  Craft 
Degree,  but  this  is  a  miracle.  A  God  and  a  Grand- 
Master  of  the  Craft  am  I,  and  a  Lodge  in  the  Third  De- 
gree I  will  open,  and  we'll  raise  the  head  priests  and  the 
Chiefs  of  the  villages." 

'"It's  against  all  the  law,"  I  says,  "holding  a  Lodge 
without  warrant  from  any  one;  and  you  know  we  never 
held  office  in  any  Lodge." 

'"It's  a  master-stroke  o'  policy,"  says  Dravot.  "It 
means  running  the  country  as  easy  as  a  four-wheeled 
bogie  on  a  down  grade.  We  can't  stop  to  enquire  now, 
or  they'll  turn  against  us.  I've  forty  Chiefs  at  my 
heel,  and  passed  and  raised  according  to  their  merit 
they  shall  be.  Billet  these  men  on  the  villages,  and 
see  that  we  run  up  a  Lodge  of  some  kind.  The  temple 
of  Imbra  will  do  for  the  Lodge-room.  The  women 
must  make  aprons  as  you  show  them.  I'll  hold  a  levee 
of  Chiefs  to-night  and  Lodge  to-morrow." 

'I  was  fair  run  off  my  legs,  but  I  wasn't  such  a  fool 
as  not  to  see  what  a  pull  this  Craft  business  gave  us.  I 
showed  the  priests'  families  how  to*make  aprons  of  the 
degrees,  but  for  Dravot's  apron  the  blue  border  and 


2io  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

marks  was  made  of  turquoise  lumps  on  white  hide,  not 
cloth.  We  took  a  great  square  stone  in  the  temple 
for  the  Master's  chair,  and  little  stones  for  the 
officers'  chairs,  and  painted  the  black  pavement  with 
white  squares,  and  did  what  we  could  to  make  things 
regular. 

'At  the  levee  which  was  held  that  night  on  the  hill- 
side with  big  bonfires,  Dravot  gives  out  that  him  and 
me  were  Gods  and  sons  of  Alexander,  and  Past  Grand- 
Masters  in  the  Craft,  and  was  come  to  make  Kafiristan 
a  country  where  every  man  should  eat  in  peace  and 
drink  in  quiet,  and  specially  obey  us.  Then  the  Chiefs 
come  round  to  shake  hands,  and  they  were  so  hairy  and 
white  and  fair  it  was  just  shaking  hands  with  old  friends. 
We  gave  them  names  according  as  they  was  like  men  we 
had  known  in  India — Billy  Fish,  Holly  Dilworth,  Pikky 
Kergan,  that  was  Bazar-master  when  I  was  at  Mhow, 
and  so  on,  and  so  on. 

1  The  most  amazing  miracles  was  at  Lodge  next  night. 
One  of  the  old  priests  was  watching  us  continuous,  and  I 
felt  uneasy,  for  I  knew  we'd  have  to  fudge  the  Ritual,  and 
I  didn't  know  what  the  men  knew.  The  old  priest  was 
a  stranger  come  in  from  beyond  the  village  of  Bashkai. 
The  minute  Dravot  puts  on  the  Master's  apron  that  the 
girls  had  made  for  him,  the  priest  fetches  a  whoop  and  a 
howl,  and  tries  to  overturn  the  stone  that  Dravot  was 
sitting  on.  "It's  all  up  now,"  I  says.  "That  comes  of 
meddling  with  the  Craft  without  warrant!"  Dravot 
never  winked  an  eye,  not  when  ten  priests  took  and  tilted 
over  the  Grand-Master's  chair — which  was  to  say  the 
stone  of  Imbra.  The  priest  begins  rubbing  the  bottom 
end  of  it  to  clear  away  the  black  dirt,  and  presently  he 
shows  all  the  other  priests  the  Master's  Mark,  same  as 
was  on  Dravot's  apron,  cut  into  the  stone.  Not  even  the 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  211 

priests  of  the  temple  of  Imbra  knew  it  was  there.  The 
old  chap  falls  flat  on  his  face  at  Dravot's  feet  and  kisses 
'em.  "Luck  again,"  says  Dravot,  across  the  Lodge  to 
me,  "they  say  it's  the  missing  Mark  that  no  one  could 
understand  the  why  of.  We're  more  than  safe  now." 
Then  he  bangs  the  butt  of  his  gun  for  a  gavel  and  says: 
"By  virtue  of  the  authority  vested  in  me  by  my  own 
right  hand  and  the  help  of  Peachey,  I  declare  myself 
Grand-Master  of  all  Freemasonry  in  Kafiristan  in  this 
the  Mother  Lodge  o'  the  country,  and  King  of  Kafiristan 
equally  with  Peachey!"  At  that  he  puts  on  his  crown 
and  I  puts  on  mine — I  was  doing  Senior  Warden — and 
we  opens  the  Lodge  in  most  ample  form.  It  was  a  amaz- 
ing miracle!  The  priests  moved  in  Lodge  through  the 
first  two  degrees  almost  without  telling,  as  if  the  mem- 
ory was  coming  back  to  them.  After  that,  Peachey 
and  Dravot  raised  such  as  was  worthy — high  priests  and 
Chiefs  of  far-off  villages.  Billy  Fish  was  the  first,  and 
I  can  tell  you  we  scared  the  soul  out  of  him.  It  was  not 
in  any  way  according  to  Ritual,  but  it  served  our  turn. 
We  didn't  raise  more  than  ten  of  the  biggest  men,  because 
we  didn't  want  to  make  the  Degree  common.  And  they 
was  clamouring  to  be  raised. 

'"In  another  six  months,"  says  Dravot,  "we'll  hold 
another  Communication,  and  see  how  you  are  work- 
ing." Then  he  asks  them  about  their  villages,  and 
learns  that  they  was  fighting  one  against  the  other, 
and  were  sick  and  tired  of  it.  And  when  they  wasn't 
doing  that  they  was  fighting  with  the  Mohammedans. 
"You  can  fight  those  when  they  come  into  our  coun- 
try," says  Dravot.  "Tell  off  every  tenth  man  of  your 
tribes  for  a  Frontier  guard,  and  send  two  hundred  at 
a  time  to  this  valley  to  be  drilled.  Nobody  is  going 
to  be  shot  or  speared  any  more  so  long  as  he  does  well, 


2i2  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

and  I  know  that  you  won't  cheat  me,  because  you're 
white  people — sons  of  Alexander — and  not  like  com- 
mon, black  Mohammedans.  You  are  my  people,  and  by 
God,"  says  he,  running  off  into  English  at  the  end— 
"I'll  make  a  damned  fine  Nation  of  you,  or  I'll  die  in 
the  making!" 

'I  can't  tell  all  we  did  for  the  next  six  months,  be- 
cause Dravot  did  a  lot  I  couldn't  see  the  hang  of,  and 
he  learned  their  lingo  in  a  way  I  never  could.  My  work 
was  to  help  the  people  plough,  and  now  and  again  go  out 
with  some  of  the  Army  and  see  what  the  other  villages 
were  doing,  and  make  'em  throw  rope-bridges  across 
the  ravines  which  cut  up  the  country  horrid.  Dravot 
was  very  kind  to  me,  but  when  he  walked  up  and  down 
in  the  pine  wood  pulling  that  bloody  red  beard  of  his 
with  both  fists  I  knew  he  was  thinking  plans  I  could  not 
advise  about,  and  I  just  waited  for  orders. 

'But  Dravot  never  showed  me  disrespect  before  the 
people.  They  were  afraid  of  me  and  the  Army,  but  they 
loved  Dan.  He  was  the  best  of  friends  with  the  priests 
and  the  Chiefs;  but  any  one  could  come  across  the  hills 
with  a  complaint,  and  Dravot  would  hear  him  out  fair, 
and  call  four  priests  together  and  say  what  was  to  be 
done.  He  used  to  call  in  Billy  Fish  from  Bashkai,  and 
Pikky  Kergan  from  Shu,  and  an  old  Chief  we  called 
Kafuzelum — it  was  like  enough  to  his  real  name — and 
hold  councils  with  'em  when  there  was  any  fighting  to  be 
done  in  small  villages.  That  was  his  Council  of  War, 
and  the  four  priests  of  Bashkai,  Shu,  Khawak,  and 
Madora  was  his  Privy  Council.  Between  the  lot  of 
'em  they  sent  me,  with  forty  men  and  twenty  rifles,  and 
sixty  men  carrying  turquoises,  into  the  Ghorband  coun- 
try to  buy  those  hand-made  Martini  rules,  that  come 
out  of  the  Amir's  workshops  at  Kabul,  from  one  of  the 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  aij 

Amir's  Herat!  regiments  that  would  have  sold  the  very 
teeth  out  of  their  mouths  for  turquoises. 

'I  stayed  in  Ghorband  a  month,  and  gave  the  Gov- 
ernor there  the  pick  of  my  baskets  for  hush-money, 
and  bribed  the  Colonel  of  the  regiment  some  more,  and, 
between  the  two  and  the  tribes-people,  we  got  more  than 
a  hundred  hand-made  Martinis,  a  hundred  good  Kohat 
Jezails  that'll  throw  to  six  hundred  yards,  and  forty  man- 
loads  of  very  bad  ammunition  for  the  rifles.  I  came  back 
with  what  I  had,  and  distributed  'em  among  the  men 
that  the  Chiefs  sent  in  to  me  to  drill.  Dravot  was  too 
busy  to  attend  to  those  things,  but  the  old  Army  that 
we  first  made  helped  me,  and  we  turned  out  five  hun- 
dred men  that  could  drill,  and  two  hundred  that  knew 
how  to  hold  arms  pretty  straight.  Even  those  cork- 
screwed, hand-made  guns  was  a  miracle  to  them.  Dravot 
talked  big  about  powder-shops  and  factories,  walking 
up  and  down  in  the  pine  wood  when  the  winter  was 
coming  on. 

'"I  won't  make  a  Nation,"  says  he.  "I'll  make  an 
Empire!  These  men  aren't  niggers;  they're  English! 
Look  at  their  eyes — look  at  their  mouths.  Look  at 
the  way  they  stand  up.  They  sit  on  chairs  in  their 
own  houses.  They're  the  Lost  Tribes,  or  something 
like  it,  and  they've  grown  to  be  English.  I'll  take  a 
census  in  the  spring  if  the  priests  don't  get  frightened. 
There  must  be  a  fair  two  million  of  'em  in  these  hills. 
The  villages  are  full  o'  little  children.  Two  million 
people — two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  fighting  men — 
and  all  English!  They  only  want  the  rifles  and  a  little 
drilling.  Two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  men,  ready 
to  cut  in  on  Russia's  right  flank  when  she  tries  for 
India!  Peachey,  man,"  he  says,  chewing  his  beard  in 
great  hunks,  "we  shall  be  Emperors — Emperors  of  the 


214  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Earth!  Rajah  Brooke  will  be  a  suckling  to  us.  I'll 
treat  with  the  Viceroy  on  equal  terms.  I'll  ask  him  to 
send  me  twelve  picked  English — twelve  that  I  know 
of — to  help  us  govern  a  bit.  There's  Mackray,  Ser- 
geant-pensioner at  Segowli — many's  the  good  dinner 
he's  given  me,  and  his  wife  a  pair  of  trousers.  There's 
Donkin,  the  Warder  of  Tounghoo  Jail;  there's  hun- 
dreds that  I  could  lay  my  hand  on  if  I  was  in  India. 
The  Viceroy  shall  do  it  for  me,  I'll  send  a  man  through 
in  the  spring  for  those  men,  and  I'll  write  for  a  dispen- 
sation from  the  Grand  Lodge  for  what  I've  done  as 
Grand-Master.  That — and  all  the  Sniders  that'll  be 
thrown  out  when  the  native  troops  in  India  take  up 
the  Martini.  They'll  be  worn  smooth,  but  they'll  do 
for  fighting  in  these  hills.  Twelve  English,  a  hundred 
thousand  Sniders  run  through  the  Amir's  country  in 
driblets — I'd  be  content  with  twenty  thousand  in  one 
year — and  we'd  be  an  Empire.  When  everything  was 
shipshape,I'dhand  over  the  crown — this  crown  I'm  wear- 
ing now — to  Queen  Victoria  on  my  knees,  and  she'd  say: 
'Rise  up,  Sir  Daniel  Dravot.'  Oh,  it's  big!  It's  big, 
I  tell  you !  But  there's  so  much  to  be  done  in  every  place 
— Bashkai,  Khawak,  Shu,  and  everywhere  else." 

'"What  is  it?"  I  says.  "There  are  no  more  men 
coming  in  to  be  drilled  this  autumn.  Look  at  those  fat, 
black  clouds.  They're  bringing  the  snow." 

'"It  isn't  that,"  says  Daniel,  putting  his  hand  very 
hard  on  my  shoulder;  "and  I  don't  wish  to  say  anything 
that's  against  you,  for  no  other  living  man  would  have 
followed  me  and  made  me  what  I  am  as  you  have  done. 
You're  a  first-class  Commander-in-Chief,  and  the  people 
know  you;  but — it's  a  big  country,  and  somehow  you 
can't  help  me,  Peachey,  in  the  way  I  want  to  be  helped." 

'"Go  to  your  blasted  priests,  then!"  I  said,  and  I  was 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  215 

sorry  when  I  made  that  remark,  but  it  did  hurt  me  sore  to 
find  Daniel  talking  so  superior  when  I'd  drilled  all  the 
men,  and  done  all  he  told  me. 

'"Don't  let's  quarrel,  Peachey,"  says  Daniel  without 
cursing.  "You're  a  King  too,  and  the  half  of  this  King- 
dom is  yours;  but  can't  you  see,  Peachey,  we  want 
cleverer  men  than  us  now — three  or  four  of  'em,  that  we 
can  scatter  about  for  our  Deputies.  It's  a  hugeous  great 
State,  and  I  can't  always  tell  the  right  thing  to  do,  and  I 
haven't  time  for  all  I  want  to  do,  and  here's  the  winter 
coming  on  and  all."  He  put  half  his  beard  into  his  mouth, 
all  red  like  the  gold  of  his  crown. 

'"I'm  sorry,  Daniel,"  says  I.  "I've  done  all  I  could. 
I've  drilled  the  men  and  shown  the  people  how  to  stack 
their  oats  better;  and  I've  brought  in  those  tin- ware  rifles 
from  Ghorband — but  I  know  what  you're  driving  at.  I 
take  it  Kings  always  feel  oppressed  that  way." 

'"There's  another  thing  too,"  says  Dravot,  walking  up 
and  down.  ' '  The  winter's  coming  and  these  people  won't 
be  giving  much  trouble,  and  if  they  do  we  can't  move 
about.  I  want  a  wife." 

'"  For  Gord's  sake  leave  the  women  alone!"  I  says. 
"We've  both  got  all  the  work  we  can,  though  I  am  a  fool. 
Remember  the  Contrack,  and  keep  clear  o'  women." 

'"The  Contrack  only  lasted  till  such  time  as  we  was 
Kings;  and  Kings  we  have  been  these  months  past,"  says 
Dravot,  weighing  his  crown  in  his  hand.  "You  go  get 
a  wife  too,  Peachey — a  nice,  strappin',  plump  girl  that'll 
keep  you  warm  in  the  winter.  They're  prettier  than 
English  girls,  and  we  can  take  the  pick  of  'em.  Boil  'em 
once  or  twice  in  hot  water,  and  they'll  come  out  like 
chicken  and  ham." 

'"Don't  tempt  me!"  I  says.  "I  will  not  have  any 
dealings  with  a  woman  not  till  we  are  a  dam'  side  more 


2i6  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

settled  than  we  are  now.  I've  been  doing  the  work  o'  two 
men,  and  you've  been  doing  the  work  o'  three.  Let's  lie 
off  a  bit,  and  see  if  we  can  get  some  better  tobacco  from 
Afghan  country  and  run  in  some  good  liquor;  but  no 
women." 

' ' '  Who's  talking  o'  women  ?  "  says  Dravot.  "I  said  wife 
— a  queen  to  breed  a  King's  son  for  the  King.  A  Queen 
out  of  the  strongest  tribe,  that'll  make  them  your  blood- 
brothers,  and  that'll  lie  by  your  side  and  tell  you  all  the 
people  thinks  about  you  and  their  own  affairs.  That's 
what  I  want." 

'"Do  you  remember  that  Bengali  woman  I  kept  at 
Mogul  Serai  when  I  was  a  plate-layer?"  says  I.  "A  fat 
lot  o'  good  she  was  to  me.  She  taught  me  the  lingo  and 
one  or  two  other  things;  but  what  happened?  She  ran 
away  with  the  Station  Master's  servant  and  half  my 
month's  pay.  Then  she  turned  up  at  Dadur  Junction  in 
tow  of  a  half-caste,  and  had  the  impidence  to  say  I  was 
her  husband — all  among  the  drivers  in  the  running-shed 
too!" 

'"We've  done  with  that,"  says  Dravot,  "these  women 
are  whiter  than  you  or  me,  and  a  Queen  I  will  have  for  the 
winter  months." 

'"For  the  last  time  o'  asking,  Dan,  do  not,"  I  says. 
"It'll  only  bring  us  harm.  The  Bible  says  that  Kings 
ain't  to  waste  then-  strength  on  women,  'specially  when 
they've  got  a  new  raw  Kingdom  to  work  over." 

'"For  the  last  time  of  answering  I  will,"  said  Dravot, 
and  he  went  away  through  the  pine-trees  looking  like  a  big 
red  devil,  the  sun  being  on  his  crown  and  beard  and  all. 

'But  getting  a  wife  was  not  as  easy  as  Dan  thought. 
He  put  it  before  the  Council,  and  there  was  no  answer  till 
Billy  Fish  said  he'd  better  ask  the  girls.  Dravot 
damned  them  all  round.  "What's  wrong  with  me?"  he 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  217 

shouts,  standing  by  the  idol  Imbra.  "Am  I  a  dog  or  am  I 
not  enough  of  a  man  for  your  wenches?  Haven't  I  put 
the  shadow  of  my  hand  over  this  country?  Who  stopped 
the  last  Afghan  raid?  "  It  was  me  really,  but  Dravot  was 
too  angry  to  remember.  "  Who  bought  your  guns?  Who 
repaired  the  bridges?  Who's  the  Grand-Master  of  the 
sign  cut  in  the  stone?  "  says  he,  and  he  thumped  his  hand 
on  the  block  that  he  used  to  sit  on  in  Lodge,  and  at 
Council,  which  opened  like  Lodge  always.  Billy  Fish 
said  nothing  and  no  more  did  the  others.  "Keep  your 
hair  on,  Dan,"  said  I;  "  and  ask  the  girls.  That's  how  it's 
done  at  Home,  and  these  people  are  quite  English." 

'"The  marriage  of  the  King  is  a  matter  of  State,"  says 
Dan,  in  a  white-hot  rage,  for  he  could  feel,  I  hope,  that  he 
was  going  against  his  better  mind.  He  walked  out  of  the 
Council-room,  and  the  others  sat  still,  looking  at  the 
ground. 

'"Billy  Fish,"  says  I  to  the  Chief  of  Bashkai,  "what's 
the  difficulty  here?  A  straight  answer  to  a  true  friend." 

'"You  know,"  says  Billy  Fish.  "How  should  a  man 
tell  you  who  knows  everything?  How  can  daughters  of 
men  marry  Gods  or  Devils?  It's  not  proper." 

'I  remembered  something  like  that  in  the  Bible;  but  if, 
after  seeing  us  as  long  as  they  had,  they  still  believed  we 
were  Gods,  it  wasn't  for  me  to  undeceive  them. 

'"A  God  can  do  anything,"  says  I.  "If  the  King  is 
fond  of  a  girl  he'll  not  let  her  die."— "She'll  have  to,"  said 
Billy  Fish.  "There  are  all  sorts  of  Gods  and  Devils  in 
these  mountains,  and  now  and  again  a  girl  marries  one  of 
them  and  isn't  seen  any  more.  Besides,  you  two  know  the 
Mark  cut  in  the  stone.  Only  the  Gods  know  that.  We 
thought  you  were  men  till  you  showed  the  sign  of  the 
Master." 

'I  wished  then  that  we  had  explained  about  the  loss  of 


2i8  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

the  genuine  secrets  of  a  Master-Mason  at  the  first  go-off; 
but  I  said  nothing.  All  that  night  there  was  a  blowing  of 
horns  in  a  little  dark  temple  half-way  down  the  hill,  and  I 
heard  a  girl  crying  fit  to  die.  One  of  the  priests  told  us 
that  she  was  being  prepared  to  marry  the  King. 

'"I'll  have  no  nonsense  of  that  kind,"  says  Dan.  "I 
don't  want  to  interfere  with  your  customs,  but  I'll  take 
my  own  wife." — "The  girl's  a  little  bit  afraid,"  says  the 
priest.  "She  thinks  she's  going  to  die,  and  they  are  a- 
heartening  of  her  up  down  in  the  temple." 

' "  Hearten  her  very  tender,  then,"  says  Dravot,  "  or  I'll 
hearten  you  with  the  butt  of  a  gun  so  you'll  never  want  to 
be  heartened  again."  He  licked  his  lips,  did  Dan,  and 
stayed  up  walking  about  more  than  half  the  night,  think- 
ing of  the  wife  that  he  was  going  to  get  in  the  morning.  I 
wasn't  by  any  means  comfortable,  for  I  knew  that  deal- 
ings with  a  woman  in  foreign  parts,  though  you  was  a 
crowned  King  twenty  times  over,  could  not  but  be  risky. 
I  got  up  very  early  in  the  morning  while  Dravot  was 
asleep,  and  I  saw  the  priests  talking  together  in  whispers, 
and  the  Chiefs  talking  together  too,  and  they  looked  at 
me  out  of  the  corners  of  their  eyes. 

'  "  What  is  up,  Fish?"  I  say  to  the  Bashkai  man,  who 
was  wrapped  up  in  his  furs  and  looking  splendid  to  behold. 

'"I  can't  rightly  say,"  says  he;  "but  if  you  can  make 
the  King  drop  all  this  nonsense  about  marriage,  you'll  be 
doing  him  and  me  and  yourself  a  great  service." 

'"That  I  do  believe,"  says  I.  "But  sure,  you  know, 
Billy,  as  well  as  me,  having  fought  against  and  for  us,  that 
the  King  and  me  are  nothing  more  than  two  of  the  finest 
men  that  God  Almighty  ever  made.  Nothing  more,  I  do 
assure  you." 

' "  That  may  be,"  says  Billy  Fish,  "and  yet  I  should  be 
sorry  if  it  was."  He  sinks  his  head  upon  his  great  fur 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  219 

cloak  for  a  minute  and  thinks.  "  King,"  says  he,  "be  you 
man  or  God  or  Devil,  I'll  stick  by  you  to-day.  I  have 
twenty  of  my  men  with  me,  and  they  will  follow  me. 
We'll  go  to  Bashkai  until  the  storm  blows  over." 

'A  little  snow  had  fallen  in  the  night,  and  everything 
was  white  except  the  greasy  fat  clouds  that  blew  down 
and  down  from  the  north.  Dravot  came  out  with  his 
crown  on  his  head,  swinging  his  arms  and  stamping  his 
feet,  and  looking  more  pleased  than  Punch. 

'  "For  the  last  time,  drop  it,  Dan,"  says  I  in  a  whisper, 
"Billy  Fish  here  says  that  there  will  be  a  row." 

'"A  row  among  my  people!"  says  Dravot.  "Not 
much.  Peachey,  you're  a  fool  not  to  get  a  wife  too. 
Where's  the  girl?"  says  he  with  a  voice  as  loud  as  the 
braying  of  a  jackass.  "Call  up  all  the  Chiefs  and  priests, 
and  let  the  Emperor  see  if  his  wife  suits  him." 

'  There  was  no  need  to  call  any  one.  They  were  all  there 
leaning  on  their  guns  and  spears  round  the  clearing  in  the 
centre  of  the  pine  wood.  A  lot  of  priests  went  down  to 
the  little  temple  to  bring  up  the  girl,  and  the  horns  blew 
fit  to  wake  the  dead.  Billy  Fish  saunters  round  and  gets 
as  close  to  Daniel  as  he  could,  and  behind  him  stood  his 
twenty  men  with  matchlocks.  Not  a  man  of  them  under 
six  feet.  I  was  next  to  Dravot,  and  behind  me  was 
twenty  men  of  the  regular  Army.  Up  comes  the  girl,  and 
a  strapping  wench  she  was,  covered  with  silver  and  tur- 
quoises but  white  as  death,  and  looking  back  every  minute 
at  the  priests. 

' "  She'll  do,"  said  Dan,  looking  her  over.  "What's  to 
be  afraid  of,  lass?  Come  and  kiss  me."  He  puts  his  arm 
round  her.  She  shuts  her  eyes,  gives  a  bit  of  a  squeak, 
and  down  goes  her  face  in  the  side  of  Dan's  flaming  red 
beard. 

'"The  slut's  bitten  me!"  says  he,  clapping  his  hand  to 


220  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

his  neck,  and,  sure  enough,  his  hand  was  red  with  blood. 
Billy  Fish  and  two  of  his  matchlock-men  catches  hold  of 
Dan  by  the  shoulders  and  drags  him  into  the  Bashkai  lot, 
while  the  priests  howls  in  their  lingo, — "Neither  God  nor 
Devil  but  a  man ! "  I  was  all  taken  aback,  for  a  priest  cut 
at  me  in  front,  and  the  Army  began  firing  into  the  Bash- 
kai men. 

' ' '  God  A'mighty ! "  says  Dan.  "  What  is  the  meaning 
o'  this?" 

1 "  Come  back !  Come  away ! "  says  Billy  Fish.  "  Ruin 
and  Mutiny  is  the  matter.  We'll  break  for  Bashkai  if  we 
can." 

'  I  tried  to  give  some  sort  of  orders  to  my  men — the  men 
o'  the  regular  Army — but  it  was  no  use,  so  I  fired  into  the 
brown  of  'em  with  an  English  Martini  and  drilled  three 
beggars  in  a  line.  The  volley  was  full  of  shouting,  howling 
creatures,  and  every  soul  was  shrieking,  "  Not  a  God  nor  a 
Devil  but  only  a  man!"  The  Bashkai  troops  stuck  to 
Billy  Fish  all  they  were  worth,  but  their  matchlocks  wasn't 
half  as  good  as  the  Kabul  breech-loaders,  and  four  of  them 
dropped.  Dan  was  bellowing  like  a  bull,  for  he  was  very 
wrathy;  and  Billy  Fish  had  a  hard  job  to  prevent  him 
running  out  at  the  crowd. 

'"We  can't  stand,"  says  Billy  Fish.  "Make  a  run  for 
it  down  the  valley !  The  whole  place  is  against  us."  The 
matchlock-men  ran,  and  we  went  down  the  valley  in  spite 
of  Dravot.  He  was  swearing  horrible  and  crying  out  he 
was  a  King.  The  priests  rolled  great  stones  on  us,  and  the 
regular  Army  fired  hard,  and  there  wasn't  more  than  six 
men,  not  counting  Dan,  Billy  Fish,  and  Me,  that  came 
down  to  the  bottom  of  the  valley  alive. 

'Then  they  stopped  firing  and  the  horns  in  the  temple 
blew  again.  "  Come  away — for  Gord's  sake  come  away ! " 
says  Billy  Fish.  "  They'll  send  runners  out  to  all  the 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  221 

lages  before  ever  we  get  to  Bashkai.  I  can  protect  you 
there,  but  I  can't  do  anything  now." 

'My  own  notion  is  that  Dan  began  to  go  mad  in  his 
head  from  that  hour.  He  stared  up  and  down  like  a 
stuck  pig.  Then  he  was  all  for  walking  back  alone 
and  killing  the  priests  with  his  bare  hands;  which  he 
could  have  done.  "An  Emperor  am  I,"  says  Daniel, 
"and  next  year  I  shall  be  a  Knight  of  the  Queen.' 

'"All  right,  Dan,"  says  I;  "but  come  along  now  while 
there's  time." 

'"It's  your  fault,"  says  he,  "for  not  looking  after 
your  Army  better.  There  was  mutiny  in  the  midst, 
and  you  didn't  know — you  damned  engine-driving, 
plate-laying,  missionary's-pass-hunting  hound!"  He 
sat  upon  a  rock  and  called  me  every  foul  name  he  could 
lay  tongue  to.  I  was  too  heart-sick  to  care,  though  it 
was  all  his  foolishness  that  brought  the  smash. 

'"I'm  sorry,  Dan,"  says  I,  "but  there's  no  accounting 
for  natives.  This  business  is  our  Fifty-seven.  Maybe 
we'll  make  something  out  of  it  yet,  when  we've  got  to 
Bashkai." 

'"Let's  get  to  Bashkai,  then,"  says  Dan,  "and,  by 
God,  when  I  come  back  here  again  I'll  sweep  the  valley 
so  there  isn't  a  bug  in  a  blanket  left!" 

'We  walked  all  that  day,  and  all  that  night  Dan  was 
stumping  up  and  down  on  the  snow,  chewing  his  beard 
and  muttering  to  himself. 

'"There's  no  hope  o'  getting  clear,"  said  Billy  Fish. 
"The  priests  will  have  sent  runners  to  the  villages  to 
say  that  you  are  only  men.  Why  didn't  you  stick  on 
as  Gods  till  things  was  more  settled?  I'm  a  dead  man," 
says  Billy  Fish,  and  he  throws  himself  down  on  the  snow 
and  begins  to  pray  to  his  Gods. 

'Next  morning  we  was  in  a  cruel  bad  country — all 


222  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

up  and  down,  no  level  ground  at  all,  and  no  food  either. 
The  six  Bashkai  men  looked  at  Billy  Fish  hungry-way 
as  if  they  wanted  to  ask  something,  but  they  said  never 
a  word.  At  noon  we  came  to  the  top  of  a  flat  mountain 
all  covered  with  snow,  and  when  we  climbed  up  into  it, 
behold,  there  was  an  Army  in  position  waiting  in  the 
middle! 

'"The  runners  have  been  very  quick,"  says  Billy 
Fish,  with  a  little  bit  of  a  laugh.  "They  are  waiting  for 
us." 

"Three  or  four  men  began  to  fire  from  the  enemy's 
side,  and  a  chance  shot  took  Daniel  in  the  calf  of  the 
leg.  That  brought  him  to  his  senses.  He  looks  across 
the  snow  at  the  Army,  and  sees  the  rifles  that  we  had 
brought  into  the  country. 

'" We're  done  for,"  says  he.  "They  are  Englishmen, 
these  people, — and  it's  my  blasted  nonsense  that  has 
brought  you  to  this.  Get  back,  Billy  Fish,  and  take 
your  men  away;  you've  done  what  you  could,  and  now 
cut  for  it.  Carnehan,"  says  he,  "shake  hands  with  me 
and  go  along  with  Billy.  Maybe  they  won't  kill  you. 
I'll  go  and  meet  'em  alone.  It's  me  that  did  it.  Me, 
the  King!" 

'"Go!"  says  I.  "Go  to  Hell,  Dan.  I'm  with  you 
here.  Billy  Fish,  you  clear  out,  and  we  two  will  meet 
those  folk." 

'"I'm  a  Chief,"  says  Billy  Fish,  quite  quiet.  "I  stay 
with  you.  My  men  can  go." 

'The  Bashkai  fellows  didn't  wait  for  a  second  word 
but  ran  off,  and  Dan  and  Me  and  Billy  Fish  walked 
across  to  where  the  drums  were  drumming  and  the 
horns  were  horning.  It  was  cold — awful  cold.  I've  got 
that  cold  in  the  back  of  my  head  now.  There's  a  lump 
of  it  there.' 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  223 

The  punkah-coolies  had  gone  to  sleep.  Two  kero- 
sene lamps  were  blazing  in  the  office,  and  the  perspira- 
tion poured  down  my  face  and  splashed  on  the  blotter 
as  I  leaned  forward.  Carnehan  was  shivering,  and  I 
feared  that  his  mind  might  go.  I  wiped  my  face,  took 
a  fresh  grip  of  the  piteously  mangled  hands,  and  said, 
'What  happened  after  that?' 

The  momentary  shift  of  my  eyes  had  broken  the  clear 
current. 

'What  was  you  pleased  to  say?'  whined  Carnehan. 
'  They  took  them  without  any  sound.  Not  a  little  whis- 
per all  along  the  snow,  not  though  the  King  knocked 
down  the  first  man  that  set  hand  on  him — not  though  old 
Peachey  fired  his  last  cartridge  into  the  brown  of  'em. 
Not  a  single  solitary  sound  did  those  swines  make.  They 
just  closed  up  tight,  and  I  tell  you  their  furs  stunk. 
There  was  a  man  called  Billy  Fish,  a  good  friend  of  us 
all,  and  they  cut  his  throat,  Sir,  then  and  there,  like 
a  pig;  and  the  King  kicks  up  the  bloody  snow  and  says: 
"We've  had  a  dashed  fine  run  for  our  money.  What's 
coming  next?"  But  Peachey,  Peachey  Taliaferro,  I 
tell  you,  Sir,  in  confidence  as  betwixt  two  friends,  he 
lost  his  head,  Sir.  No,  he  didn't  neither.  The  King 
lost  his  head,  so  he  did,  all  along  o'  one  of  those  cunning 
rope-bridges.  Kindly  let  me  have  the  paper-cutter, 
Sir.  It  tilted  this  way.  They  marched  him  a  mile 
across  that  snow  to  a  rope-bridge  over  a  ravine  with  a 
river  at  the  bottom.  You  may  have  seen  such.  They 
prodded  him  behind  like  an  ox.  "Damn  your  eyes!" 
says  the  King.  "  D'you  suppose  I  can't  die  like  a  gentle- 
man?" He  turns  to  Peachey — Peachey  that  was  crying 
like  a  child.  "I've  brought  you  to  this,  Peachey,"  says 
he.  "Brought  you  out  of  your  happy  life  to  be  killed 
in  Kafiristan  where  you  was  late  Commander-in-Chief  of 


224  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

the  Emperor's  forces.  Say  you  forgive  me,  Peachey."- 
"I  do,"  says  Peachey.  "Fully  and  freely  do  I  forgive 
you,  Dan." — "Shake  hands,  Peachey,"  says  he.  "I'm 
going  now."  Out  he  goes,  looking  neither  right  nor 
left,  and  when  he  was  plumb  in  the  middle  of  those 
dizzy  dancing  ropes, — "Cut,  you  beggars,"  he  shouts, 
and  they  cut,  and  old  Dan  fell,  turning  round  and  round 
and  round,  twenty  thousand  miles,  for  he  took  half  an 
hour  to  fall  till  he  struck  the  water,  and  I  could  see 
his  body  caught  on  a  rock  with  the  gold  crown  close 
beside. 

'  But  do  you  know  what  they  did  to  Peachey  between 
two  pine-trees?  They  crucified  him,  Sir,  as  Peachey'^ 
hands  will  show.  They  used  wooden  pegs  for  his  hands 
and  his  feet;  and  he  didn't  die.  He  hung  there  and 
screamed,  and  they  took  him  down  next  day,  and  said 
it  was  a  miracle  that  he  wasn't  dead.  They  took  him 
down — poor  old  Peachey  that  hadn't  done  them  any 
harm — that  hadn't  done  them  any — 

He  rocked  to  and  fro  and  wept  bitterly,  wiping  his 
eyes  with  the  back  of  his  scarred  hands  and  moaning 
like  a  child  for  some  ten  minutes. 

'They  was  cruel  enough  to  feed  him  up  in  the  temple, 
because  they  said  he  was  more  of  a  God  than  old  Daniel 
that  was  a  man.  Then  they  turned  him  out  on  the 
snow,  and  told  him  to  go  home,  and  Peachey  came 
home  in  about  a  year,  begging  along  the  roads  quite 
safe;  for  Daniel  Dravot  he  walked  before  and  said: 
"Come  along,  Peachey.  It's  a  big  thing  we're  doing." 
The  mountains  they  danced  at  night,  and  the  mountains 
they  tried  to  fall  on  Peachey's  head,  but  Dan  he  held  up 
his  hand,  and  Peachey  came  along  bent  double.  He 
never  let  go  of  Dan's  hand,  and  he  never  let  go  of  Dan's 
head.  They  gave  it  to  him  as  a  present  in  the  temple, 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  225 

to  remind  him  not  to  come  again,  and  though  the  crown 
was  pure  gold,  and  Peachey  was  starving,  never  would 
Peachey  sell  the  same.  You  knew  Dravot,  Sir!  You 
knew  Right  Worshipful  Brother  Dravot!  Look  at  him 
now!' 

He  fumbled  in  the  mass  of  rags  round  his  bent  waist; 
brought  out  a  black  horsehair  bag  embroidered  with 
silver  thread;  and  shook  therefrom  on  to  my  table — the 
dried,  withered  head  of  Daniel  Dravot!  The  morning 
sun  that  had  long  been  paling  the  lamps  struck  the  red 
beard  and  blind  sunken  eyes;  struck,  too,  a  heavy  circlet 
of  gold  studded  with  raw  turquoises,  that  Carnehan 
placed  tenderly  on  the  battered  temples. 

'You  be'old  now/  said  Carnehan,  'the  Emperor  in 
his  'abit  as  he  lived — the  King  of  Kafiristan  with  his 
crown  upon  his  head.  Poor  old  Daniel  that  was  a  mon- 
arch once!' 

I  shuddered,  for,  in  spite  of  defacements  manifold, 
I  recognised  the  head  of  the  man  of  Marwar  Junction. 
Carnehan  rose  to  go.  I  attempted  to  stop  him.  He 
was  not  fit  to  walk  abroad.  'Let  me  take  away  the 
whiskey,  and  give  me  a  little  money,'  he  gasped.  'I 
was  a  King  once.  I'll  go  to  the  Deputy  Commissioner 
and  ask  to  set  in  the  Poorhouse  till  I  get  my  health. 
No,  thank  you,  I  can't  wait  till  you  get  a  carriage  for 
me.  I've  urgent  private  affairs — in  the  south — at 
Marwar.' 

He  shambled  out  of  the  office  and  departed  in  the 
direction  of  the  Deputy  Commissioner's  house.  That 
day  at  noon  I  had  occasion  to  go  down  the  blinding 
hot  Mall,  and  I  saw  a  crooked  man  crawling  along  the 
white  dust  of  the  roadside,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  quaver- 
ing dolorously  after  the  fashion  of  street-singers  at 
Home.  There  was  not  a  soul  in  sight,  and  he  was  out 


226  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

of  all  possible  earshot  of  the  houses.    And  he  sang 
through  his  nose,  turning  his  head  from  right  to  left: — 

'The  Son  of  Man  goes  forth  to  war, 

A  golden  crown  to  gain; 
His  blood-red  banner  streams  afar — 
Who  follows  in  his  train? ' 

I  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  put  the  poor  wretch 
into  my  carriage  and  drove  him  off  to  the  nearest  mis- 
sionary for  eventual  transfer  to  the  Asylum.  He  re- 
peated the  hymn  twice  while  he  was  with  me  whom  he 
did  not  in  the  least  recognise,  and  I  left  him  singing  it 
to  the  missionary. 

Two  days  later  I  enquired  after  his  welfare  of  the 
Superintendent  of  the  Asylum. 

'He  was  admitted  suffering  from  sun-stroke.  He 
died  early  yesterday  morning/  said  the  Superintend- 
ent. 'Is  it  true  that  he  was  half  an  hour  bare-headed 
in  the  sun  at  midday?' 

'Yes,'  said  I,  'but  do  you  happen  to  know  if  he  had 
anything  upon  him  by  any  chance  when  he  died? ' 

'Not  to  my  knowledge,'  said  the  Superintendent. 

And  there  the  matter  rests. 


WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE 

'An  officer  and  a  gentleman/ 

His  full  name  was  Percival  William  Williams,  but 
he  picked  up  the  other  name  in  a  nursery-book,  and 
that  was  the  end  of  the  christened  titles.  His  mother's 
ay  all  called  him  Willie-5a6a,  but  as  he  never  paid  the 
faintest  attention  to  anything  that  the  ayah  said,  her 
wisdom  did  not  help  matters. 

His  father  was  the  Colonel  of  the  195th,  and  as  soon 
as  Wee  Willie  Winkie  was  old  enough  to  understand 
what  Military  Discipline  meant,  Colonel  Williams  put 
him  under  it.  There  was  no  other  way  of  managing 
the  child.  WTien  he  was  good  for  a  week,  he  drew  good- 
conduct  pay;  and  when  he  was  bad,  he  was  deprived 
of  his  good-conduct  stripe.  Generally  he  was  bad,  for 
India  offers  many  chances  of  going  wrong  to  little  six- 
year-olds. 

Children  resent  familiarity  from  strangers,  and  Wee 
Willie  Winkie  was  a  very  particular  child.  Once  he 
accepted  an  acquaintance,  he  was  graciously  pleased  to 
thaw.  He  accepted  Brandis,  a  subaltern  of  the  iQ5th, 
on  sight.  Brandis  was  having  tea  at  the  Colonel's, 
and  Wee  Willie  Winkie  entered  strong  in  the  possession 
of  a  good-conduct  badge  won  for  not  chasing  the  hens 
round  the  compound.  He  regarded  Brandis  with  grav- 
ity for  at  least  ten  minutes,  and  then  delivered  himself 
of  his  opinion. 

'I  like  you,'  said  he  slowly,  getting  off  his  chair  and 

227 


228  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

coming  over  to  Brandis.  'I  like  you.  I  shall  call  you 
Coppy,  because  of  your  hair.  Do  you  mind  being  called 
Coppy?  It  is  because  of  ve  hair,  you  know.' 

Here  was  one  of  the  most  embarrassing  of  Wee  Willie 
Winkie's  peculiarities.  He  would  look  at  a  stranger 
for  some  time,  and  then,  without  warning  or  explanation, 
would  give  him  a  name.  And  the  name  stuck.  No 
regimental  penalties  could  break  Wee  Willie  Winkie 
of  this  habit.  He  lost  his  good-conduct  badge  for 
christening  the  Commissioner's  wife  'Fobs';  but  noth- 
ing that  the  Colonel  could  do  made  the  Station  forego 
the  nickname,  and  Mrs.  Collen  remained  'Fobs'  till  the 
end  of  her  stay.  So  Brandis  was  christened  'Coppy,' 
and  rose,  therefore,  in  the  estimation  of  the  regiment. 

If  Wee  Willie  Winkie  took  an  interest  in  any  one,  the 
fortunate  man  was  envied  alike  by  the  mess  and  the  rank 
and  file.  And  in  their  envy  lay  no  suspicion  of  self-inter- 
est. 'The  Colonel's  son'  was  idolised  on  his  own  merits 
entirely.  Yet  Wee  Willie  Winkie  was  not  lovely.  His 
face  was  permanently  freckled,  as  his  legs  were  per- 
manently scratched,  and  in  spite  of  his  mother's  almost 
tearful  remonstrances  he  had  insisted  upon  having  his 
long  yellow  locks  cut  short  in  the  military  fashion.  'I 
want  my  hair  like  Sergeant  TummiPs,'  said  Wee  Willie 
Winkie,  and,  his  father  abetting,  the  sacrifice  was  ac- 
complished. 

Three  weeks  after  the  bestowal  of  his  youthful  affec- 
tions on  Lieutenant  Brandis — henceforward  to  be  called 
'  Coppy '  for  the  sake  of  brevity — Wee  Willie  Winkie  was 
destined  to  behold  strange  things  and  far  beyond  his  com- 
prehension. 

Coppy  returned  his  liking  with  interest.  Coppy  had 
let  him  wear  for  five  rapturous  minutes  his  own  big  sword 
• — just  as  tall  as  Wee  Willie  Winkie.  Coppy  had  promised 


WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE  229 

him  a  terrier  puppy;  and  Coppy  had  permitted  him  to  wit- 
ness the  miraculous  operation  of  shaving.  Nay,  more — 
Coppy  had  said  that  even  he,  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  would 
rise  in  time  to  the  ownership  of  a  box  of  shiny  knives,  a 
silver  soap-box  and  a  silver-handled  'sputter-brush,'  as 
Wee  Willie  Winkie  called  it.  Decidedly,  there  was  no  one 
except  his  father,  who  could  give  or  take  away  good-con- 
duct badges  at  pleasure,  half  so  wise,  strong,  and  valiant 
as  Coppy  with  the  Afghan  and  Egyptian  medals  on  his 
breast.  Why,  then,  should  Coppy  be  guilty  of  the  un- 
manly weakness  of  kissing — vehemently  kissing — a  'big 
girl,'  Miss  Allardyce  to  wit?  In  the  course  of  a  morning 
ride,  Wee  Willie  Winkie  had  seen  Coppy  so  doing,  and, 
like  the  gentleman  he  was,  had  promptly  wheeled  round 
and  cantered  back  to  his  groom,  lest  the  groom  should 
also  see. 

Under  ordinary  circumstances  he  would  have  spoken  to 
his  father,  but  he  felt  instinctively  that  this  was  a  matter 
on  which  Coppy  ought  first  to  be  consulted. 

'Coppy,'  shouted  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  reining  up  out- 
side that  subaltern's  bungalow  early  one  morning — 'I 
want  to  see  you,  Coppy!' 

'Come  in,  young  'un,'  returned  Coppy,  who  was  at 
early  breakfast  in  the  midst  of  his  dogs.  'What  mischief 
have  you  been  getting  into  now? ' 

Wee  Willie  Winkie  had  done  nothing  notoriously  bad 
for  three  days,  and  so  stood  on  a  pinnacle  of  virtue. 

Tve  been  doing  nothing  bad,'  said  he,  curling  himself 
into  a  long  chair  with  a  studious  affectation  of  the  Colo- 
nel's languor  after  a  hot  parade.  He  buried  his  freckled 
nose  in  a  tea-cup  and,  with  eyes  staring  roundly  over  the 
rim,  asked : '  I  say,  Coppy,  is  it  pwoper  to  kiss  big  girls? ' 

'  By  Jove !  You're  beginning  early.  Who  do  you  want 
to  kiss? ' 


230  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

'No  one.  My  muwer's  always  kissing  me  if  I  don't 
stop  her.  If  it  isn't  pwoper,  how  was  you  kissing  Major 
AUardyce's  big  girl  last  morning,  by  ve  canal? ' 

Coppy's  brow  wrinkled.  He  and  Miss  Allardyce  had 
with  great  craft  managed  to  keep  their  engagement  secret 
for  a  fortnight.  There  were  urgent  and  imperative 
reasons  why  Major  Allardyce  should  not  know  how 
matters  stood  for  at  least  another  month,  and  this  small 
marplot  had  discovered  a  great  deal  too  much. 

'I  saw  you,'  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie  calmly.  'But  ve 
sais  didn't  see.  I  said,  "Hutjao  I " 

'  Oh,  you  had  that  much  sense,  you  young  Rip/  groaned 
poor  Coppy,  half  amused  and  half  angry.  'And  how 
many  people  may  you  have  told  about  it? ' 

'  Only  me  myself.  You  didn't  tell  when  I  twied  to  wide 
ve  buffalo  ven  my  pony  was  lame;  and  I  fought  you 
wouldn't  like.' 

'Winkie,'  said  Coppy  enthusiastically,  shaking  the 
small  hand,  'you're  the  best  of  good  fellows.  Look  here, 
you  can't  understand  all  these  things.  One  of  these  days 
— hang  it,  how  can  I  make  ypu  see  it! — I'm  going  to 
marry  Miss  Allardyce,  and  then  she'll  be  Mrs.  Coppy,  as 
you  say.  If  your  young  mind  is  so  scandalised  at  the  idea 
of  kissing  big  girls,  go  and  tell  your  father/ 

'What  will  happen?'  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  who 
firmly  believed  that  his  father  was  omnipotent. 

'I  shall  get  into  trouble,'  said  Coppy,  playing  his  trump 
card  with  an  appealing  look  at  the  holder  of  the  ace. 

'  Ven  I  won't,'  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie  briefly.  '  But  my 
faver  says  it's  un-man-ly  to  be  always  kissing,  and  I 
didn't  fink  you'd  do  vat,  Coppy.' 

'I'm  not  always  kissing,  old  chap.  It's  only  now  and 
then,  and  when  you're  bigger  you'll  do  it  too.  Your 
father  meant  it's  not  good  for  little  boys.' 


WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE  ,  231 

'Ah!'  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  now  fully  enlightened. 
1  It's  like  ve  sputter-brush? ' 

'Exactly,'  said  Coppy  gravely. 

'  But  I  don't  fink  I'll  ever  want  to  kiss  big  girls,  nor  no 
one,  'cept  my  muwer.  And  I  must  vat,  you  know. ' 

There  was  a  long  pause,  broken  by  Wee  Willie  Winkie. 

'  Are  you  fond  of  vis  big  girl,  Coppy? ' 

'  Awfully ! '  said  Coppy. 

1  Fonder  van  you  are  of  Bell  or  ve  Butcha — or  me? ' 

'It's  in  a  different  way,'  said  Coppy.  'You  see,  one  of 
these  days  Miss  AUardyce  will  belong  to  me,  but  you'll 
grow  up  and  command  the  Regiment  and — all  sorts  of 
things.  It's  quite  different,  you  see.' 

'  Very  well,'  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  rising.  '  If  you're 
fond  of  ve  big  girl,  I  won't  tell  any  one.  I  must  go  now.' 

Coppy  rose  and  escorted  his  small  guest  to  the  door, 
adding — '  You're  the  best  of  little  fellows,  Winkie.  I  tell 
you  what.  In  thirty  days  from  now  you  can  tell  if  you 
like — tell  any  one  you  like.' 

Thus  the  secret  of  the  Brandis-Allardyce  engagement 
was  dependent  on  a  little  child's  word.  Coppy,  who  knew 
Wee  Willie  Winkie's  idea  of  truth,  was  at  ease,  for  he  felt 
that  he  would  not  break  promises.  Wee  Willie  Winkie 
betrayed  a  special  and  unusual  interest  in  Miss  Allar- 
dyce,  and,  slowly  revolving  round  that  embarrassed 
young  lady,  was  used  to  regard  her  gravely  with  unwink- 
ing eye.  He  was  trying  to  discover  why  Coppy  should 
have  kissed  her.  She  was  not  half  so  nice  as  his  own 
mother.  On  the  other  hand,  she  was  Coppy's  property, 
and  would  in  time  belong  to  him.  Therefore  it  behooved 
him  to  treat  her  with  as  much  respect  as  Coppy's  big 
sword  or  shiny  pistol. 

The  idea  that  he  shared  a  great  secret  in  common  with 
Coppy  kept  Wee  Willie  Winkie  unusually  virtuous  for 


232  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

three  weeks.  Then  the  Old  Adam  broke  out,  and  he 
made  what  he  called  a  'camp-fire'  at  the  bottom  of  the 
garden.  How  could  he  have  foreseen  that  the  flying 
sparks  would  have  lighted  the  Colonel's  little  hay-rick 
and  consumed  a  week's  store  for  the  horses?  Sudden  and 
swift  was  the  punishment — deprivation  of  the  good-con- 
duct badge  and,  most  sorrowful  of  all,  two  days'  confine- 
ment to  barracks — the  house  and  veranda — coupled  with 
the  withdrawal  of  the  light  of  his  father's  countenance. 

He  took  the  sentence  like  the  man  he  strove  to  be,  drew 
himself  up  with  a  quivering  under-lip,  saluted,  and,  once 
clear  of  the  room,  ran  to  weep  bitterly  in  his  nursery — 
called  by  him  'my  quarters.'  Coppy  came  in  the  after- 
noon and  attempted  to  console  the  culprit. 

'I'm  under  awwest,'  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie  mourn- 
fully, 'and  I  didn't  ought  to  speak  to  you.' 

Very  early  the  next  morning  he  climbed  on  to  the  roof 
of  the  house — that  was  not  forbidden — and  beheld  Miss 
Allardyce  going  for  a  ride. 

'Where  are  you  going? '  cried  Wee  Willie  Winkie. 

'Across  the  river,'  she  answered,  and  trotted  forward. 

Now  the  cantonment  in  which  the  195 th  lay  was 
bounded  on  the  north  by  a  river — dry  in  the  winter. 
From  his  earliest  years,  Wee  Willie  Winkie  had  been  for- 
bidden to  go  across  the  river,  and  had  noted  that  even 
Coppy — the  almost  almighty  Coppy — had  never  set  foot 
beyond  it.  Wee  Willie  Winkie  had  once  been  read  to, 
out  of  a  big  blue  book,  the  history  of  the  Princess  and  the 
Goblins — a  most  wonderful  tale  of  a  land  where  the 
Goblins  were  always  warring  with  the  children  of  men 
until  they  were  defeated  by  one  Curdie.  Ever  since  that 
date  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  bare  black  and  purple  hills 
across  the  river  were  inhabited  by  Goblins,  and,  in  truth, 
every  one  had  said  that  there  lived  the  Bad  Men.  Even 


WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE  233 

in  his  own  house  the  lower  halves  of  the  windows  were 
covered  with  green  paper  on  account  of  the  Bad  Men  who 
might,  if  allowed  clear  view,  fire  into  peaceful  drawing- 
rooms  and  comfortable  bedrooms.  Certainly,  beyond  the 
river,  which  was  the  end  of  all  the  Earth,  lived  the  Bad 
Men.  And  here  was  Major  Allardyce's  big  girl,  Coppy's 
property,  preparing  to  venture  into  their  borders!  What 
would  Coppy  say  if  anything  happened  to  her?  If  the 
Goblins  ran  off  with  her  as  they  did  with  Curdie's  Prin- 
cess? She  must  at  all  hazards  be  turned  back. 

The  house  was  still.  Wee  Willie  Winkie  reflected  for  a 
moment  on  the  very  terrible  wrath  of  his  father;  and  then 
—broke  his  arrest!  It  was  a  crime  unspeakable.  The 
low  sun  threw  his  shadow,  very  large  and  very  black,  on 
the  trim  garden-paths,  as  he  went  down  to  the  stables  and 
ordered  his  pony.  It  seemed  to  him  in  the  hush  of  the 
dawn  that  all  the  big  world  had  been  bidden  to  stand  still 
and  look  at  Wee  Willie  Winkie  guilty  of  mutiny.  The 
drowsy  sais  gave  him  his  mount,  and,  since  the  one  great 
sin  made  all  others  insignificant,  Wee  Willie  Winkie  said 
that  he  was  going  to  ride  over  to  Coppy  Sahib,  and  went 
out  at  a  foot-pace,  stepping  on  the  soft  mould  of  the  flow- 
er-borders. 

The  devastating  track  of  the  pony's  feet  was  the  last 
misdeed  that  cut  him  off  from  all  sympathy  of  Humanity. 
He  turned  into  the  road,  leaned  forward,  and  rode  as  fast 
as  the  pony  could  put  foot  to  the  ground  in  the  direction 
of  the  river. 

But  the  liveliest  of  twelve-two  ponies  can  do  little 
against  the  long  canter  of  a  Waler.  Miss  AUardyce  was 
far  ahead,  had  passed  through  the  crops,  beyond  the 
Police-posts,  when  all  the  guards  were  asleep,  and  her 
mount  was  scattering  the  pebbles  of  the  river-bed  as  Wee 
Willie  Winkie  left  the  cantonment  and  British  India  be- 


234  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

hind  him.  Bowed  forward  and  still  flogging,  Wee  Willie 
Winkie  shot  into  Afghan  territory,  and  could  just  see  Miss 
Allardyce  a  black  speck,  flickering  across  the  stony  plain. 
The  reason  of  her  wandering  was  simple  enough.  Coppy, 
in  a  tone  of  too-hastily-assumed  authority,  had  told  her 
over  night  that  she  must  not  ride  out  by  the  river.  And 
she  had  gone  to  prove  her  own  spirit  and  teach  Coppy  a 
lesson. 

Almost  at  the  foot  of  the  inhospitable  hills,  Wee  Willie 
Winkie  saw  the  Waler  blunder  and  come  down  heavily. 
Miss  Allardyce  struggled  clear,  but  her  ankle  had  been 
severely  twisted,  and  she  could  not  stand.  Having  fully 
shown  her  spirit,  she  wept,  and  was  surprised  by  the  ap- 
parition of  a  white,  wide-eyed  child  in  khaki,  on  a  nearly 
spent  pony. 

'Are  you  badly,  badly  hurted?'  shouted  Wee  Willie 
Winkie,  as  soon  as  he  was  within  range.  'You  didn't 
ought  to  be  here.' 

'I  don't  know,'  said  Miss  Allardyce  ruefully,  ignoring 
the  reproof.  '  Good  gracious,  child,  what  are  you  doing 
here?' 

'You  said  you  was  going  acwoss  ve  wiver,'  panted  Wee 
Willie  Winkie,  throwing  himself  off  his  pony.  'And  no- 
body— not  even  Coppy — must  go  acwoss  ve  wiver,  and  I 
came  after  you  ever  so  hard,  but  you  wouldn't  stop,  and 
now  you've  hurted  yourself,  and  Coppy  will  be  angwy  wiv 
me,  and — I've  bwoken  my  awwest!  I've  bwoken  my 
awwest!' 

The  future  Colonel  of  the  iQSth  sat  down  and  sobbed. 
In  spite  of  the  pain  in  her  ankle  the  girl  was  moved. 

'Have  you  ridden  all  the  way  from  cantonments, 
little  man?  What  for?' 

'You  belonged  to  Coppy.  Coppy  told  me  so!' 
wailed  Wee  Willie  Winkie  Disconsolately.  'I  saw  him 


WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE  235 

missing  you,  and  he  said  he  was  fonder  of  you  van  Bell 
or  ve  Butcha  or  me.  And  so  I  came.  You  must  get 
up  and  come  back.  You  didn't  ought  to  be  here.  Vis 
is  a  bad  place,  and  I've  bwoken  my  awwest.' 

'I  can't  move,  Winkie,'  said  Miss  Allardyce,  with  a 
.groan.  'I've  hurt  my  foot.  What  shall  I  do?' 

She  showed  a  readiness  to  weep  anew,  which  steadied 
Wee  Willie  Winkie,  who  had  been  brought  up  to  be- 
lieve that  tears  were  the  depth  of  unmanliness.  Still, 
when  one  is  as  great  a  sinner  as  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  even 
a  man  may  be  permitted  to  break  down. 

'Winkie,'  said  Miss  Allardyce,  'when  you've  rested 
a  little,  ride  back  and  tell  them  to  send  out  something 
to  carry  me  back  in.  It  hurts  fearfully.' 

The  child  sat  still  for  a  little  time  and  Miss  Allardyce 
closed  her  eyes;  the  pain  was  nearly  making  her  faint. 
She  was  roused  by  Wee  Willie  Winkie  tying  up  the 
reins  on  his  pony's  neck  and  setting  it  free  with  a  vicious 
cut  of  his  whip  that  made  it  whicker.  The  little  animal 
headed  towards  the  cantonments. 

'  Oh,  Winkie !     What  are  you  doing? ' 

'Hush!'  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie.  'Vere's  a  man 
coming — one  of  ve  Bad  Men.  I  must  stay  wiv  you. 
My  faver  says  a  man  must  always  look  after  a  girl. 
Jack  will  go  home,  and  ven  vey'll  come  and  look  for 
us.  Vat's  why  I  let  him  go.' 

Not  one  man  but  two  or  three  had  appeared  from 
behind  the  rocks  of  the  hills,  and  the  heart  of  Wee  Willie 
Winkie  sank  within  him,  for  just  in  this  manner  were 
the  Goblins  wont  to  steal  out  and  vex  Curdie's  soul. 
Thus  had  they  played  in  Curdie's  garden,  he  had  seen 
the  picture,  and  thus  had  they  frightened  the  Princess's 
nurse.  He  heard  them  talking  to  each  other,  and  rec- 
ognised with  joy  the  bastard  Pushto  that  he  had  picked 


236  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

up  from  one  of  his  father's  grooms  lately  dismissed. 
People  who  spoke  that  tongue  could  not  be  the  Bad  Men. 
They  were  only  natives  after  all. 

They  came  up  to  the  bowlders  on  which  MissAllar- 
dyce's  horse  had  blundered. 

Then  rose  from  the  rock  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  child 
of  the  Dominant  Race,  aged  six  and  three-quarters,  and 
said  briefly  and  emphatically  'Jao!'  The  pony  had 
crossed  the  river-bed. 

The  men  laughed,  and  laughter  from  natives  was  the 
one  thing  Wee  Willie  Winkie  could  not  tolerate.  He 
asked  them  what  they  wanted  and  why  they  did  not 
depart.  Other  men  with  most  evil  faces  and  crooked- 
stocked  guns  crept  out  of  the  shadows  of  the  hills,  till, 
soon,  Wee  Willie  Winkie  was  face  to  face  with  an  audi- 
ence some  twenty  strong.  Miss  Allardyce  screamed. 

'Who  are  you?'  said  one  of  the  men. 

'I  am  the  Colonel  Sahib's  son,  and  my  order  is  that 
you  go  at  once.  You  black  men  are  frightening  the 
Miss  Sahib.  One  of  you  must  run  into  cantonments 
and  take  the  news  that  the  Miss  Sahib  has  hurt  herself, 
and  that  the  Colonel's  son  is  here  with  her.' 

'Put  our  feet  into  the  trap?'  was  the  laughing  reply. 
'Hear  this  boy's  speech!' 

'Say  that  I  sent  you — I,  the  Colonel's  son.  They 
will  give  you  money.' 

'What  is  the  use  of  this  talk?  Take  up  the  child 
and  the  girl,  and  we  can  at  least  ask  for  the  ransom. 
Ours  are  the  villages  on  the  heights,'  said  a  voice  in  the 
background. 

These  were  the  Bad  Men — worse  than  Goblins — and 
it  needed  all  Wee  Willie  Winkie's  training  to  prevent 
him  from  bursting  into  tears.  But  he  felt  that  to  cry 
before  a  native,  excepting  only  his  mother's  ayah,  would 


WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE  237 

be  an  infamy  greater  than  any  mutiny.  Moreover,  he, 
as  future  Colonel  of  the  iQ5th,  had  that  grim  regiment 
at  his  back. 

'Are  you  going  to  carry  us  away?'  said  Wee  Willie 
Winkie,  very  blanched  and  uncomfortable. 

'Yes,  my  little  Sahib  Bahadur,'  said  the  tallest  of  the 
men,  'and  eat  you  afterwards.' 

'That  is  child's  talk,'  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie.  'Men 
do  not  eat  men.' 

A  yell  of  laughter  interrupted  him,  but  he  went  on 
firmly — 'And  if  you  do  carry  us  away,  I  tell  you  that 
all  my  regiment  will  come  up  in  a  day  and  kill  you  all 
without  leaving  one.  Who  will  take  my  message  to  the 
Colonel  Sahib?' 

Speech  in  any  vernacular — and  Wee  Willie  Winkie 
had  a  colloquial  acquaintance  with  three — was  easy  to 
the  boy  who  could  not  yet  manage  his  'r's'  and  'th's' 
aright. 

Another  man  joined  the  conference,  crying:  'O  fool- 
ish men !  What  this  babe  says  is  true.  He  is  the  heart's 
heart  of  those  white  troops.  For  the  sake  of  peace  let 
them  go  both,  for  if  he  be  taken,  the  regiment  will  break 
loose  and  gut  the  valley.  Our  villages  are  in  the  valley, 
and  we  shall  not  escape.  That  regiment  are  devils. 
They  broke  Khoda  Yar's  breastbone  with  kicks  when  he 
tried  to  take  the  rifles;  and  if  we  touch  this  child  they  will 
fire  and  rape  and  plunder  for  a  month,  till  nothing  re- 
mains. Better  to  send  a  man  back  to  take  the  message 
and  get  a  reward.  I  say  that  this  child  is  their  God,  and 
that  they  will  spare  none  of  us,  nor  our  women,  if  we 
harm  him.' 

It  was  Din  Mahommed,  the  dismissed  groom  of  the 
Colonel,  who  made  the  diversion,  and  an  angry  and 
heated  discussion  followed.  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  stand- 


238  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

ing  over  Miss  Allardyce,  waited  the  upshot.  Surely 
his  'wegiment,'  his  own  'wegiment,'  would  not  desert 
him  if  they  knew  of  his  extremity. 


The  riderless  pony  brought  the  news  to  the 
though  there  had  been  consternation  in  the  Colonel's 
household  for  an  hour  before.  The  little  beast  came  in 
through  the  parade-ground  in  front  cf  the  main  bar- 
racks, where  the  men  were  settling  down  to  play  Spoil- 
five  till  the  afternoon.  Devlin,  the  Colour-Sergeant  of 
E  Company,  glanced  at  the  empty  saddle  and  tumbled 
through  the  barrack-rooms,  kicking  up  each  Room  Cor- 
poral as  he  passed.  'Up,  ye  beggars!  There's  some- 
thing happened  to  the  Colonel's  son,'  he  shouted. 

'He  couldn't  fall  off!  S'elp  me,  'e  couldn't  fall  off/ 
blubbered  a  drummer-boy.  'Go  an'  hunt  acrost  the 
river.  He's  over  there  if  he's  anywhere,  an'  maybe 
those  Pathans  have  got  'im.  For  the  love  o'  Gawd 
don't  look  for  'im  in  the  nullahs!  Let's  go  over  the 
river.' 

'There's  sense  in  Mott  yet,'  said  Devlin.  'E  Com- 
pany, double  out  to  the  river — sharp!' 

So  E  Company,  in  its  shirt-sleeves  mainly,  doubled 
for  the  dear  life,  and  in  the  rear  toiled  the  perspiring 
Sergeant,  adjuring  it  to  double  yet  faster.  The  canton- 
ment was  alive  with  the  men  of  the  iQ5th  hunting  for 
Wee  Willie  Winkie,  and  the  Colonel  finally  overtook  E 
Company,  far  too  exhausted  to  swear,  struggling  in  the 
pebbles  of  the  river-bed. 

Up  the  hill  under  which  Wee  Willie  Winkie's  Bad 
Men  were  discussing  the  wisdom  of  carrying  off  the 
child  and  the  girl,  a  look-out  fired  two  shots. 

'What  have  I  said? '  shouted  Din  Mahommed.  'There 


WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE  239 

is  the  warning!  The  pulton  are  out  already  and  are 
coming  across  the  plain!  Get  away!  Let  us  not  be 
seen  with  the  boy!' 

The  men  waited  for  an  instant,  and  then,  as  another 
shot  was  fired,  withdrew  into  the  hills,  silently  as  they 
had  appeared. 

'The  wegiment  is  coming,'  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie 
confidently  to  Miss  AUardyce,  'and  it's  all  wight. 
Don't  cwy!' 

He  needed  the  advice  himself,  for  ten  minutes  later, 
when  his  father  came  up,  he  was  weeping  bitterly  with 
his  head  in  Miss  Allardyce's  lap. 

And  the  men  of  the  iQSth  carried  him  home  with 
shouts  and  rejoicings;  and  Coppy,  who  had  ridden  a 
horse  into  a  lather,  met  him,  and,  to  his  intense  dis- 
gust, kissed  him  openly  in  the  presence  of  the  men. 

But  there  was  balm  for  his  dignity.  His  father  as- 
sured him  that  not  only  would  the  breaking  of  arrest 
be  condoned,  but  that  the  good-conduct  badge  would 
be  restored  as  soon  as  his  mother  could  sew  it  on  his 
blouse-sleeve.  Miss  AUardyce  had  told  the  Colonel  a 
story  that  made  him  proud  of  his  son. 

'  She  belonged  to  you,  Coppy,'  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie, 
indicating  Miss  AUardyce  with  a  grimy  forefinger.  *I 
knew  she  didn't  ought  to  go  acwoss  ve  wiver,  and  I  knew 
ve  wegiment  would  come  to  me  if  I  sent  Jack  home.' 

'You're  a  hero,  Winkie,'  said  Coppy — 'a  pukka  hero!' 

'I  don't  know  what  vat  means,'  said  Wee  Willie 
Winkie,  'but  you  mustn't  call  me  Winkie  any  no  more. 
I'm  Percival  Will'am  WUl'ams.' 

And  in  this  manner  did  Wee  Willie  Winkie  enter  into 
ius  manhood. 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP 

Baa  Baa,  Black  Sheep, 

Have  you  any  wool? 

Yes,  Sir,  yes,  Sir,  three  bags  full. 

One  for  the  Master,  one  for  the  Dame — 

None  for  the  Little  Boy  that  cries  down  the  lane. 

Nursery  Rhyme. 

THE  FIRST  BAG 

When  I  was  hi  my  father's  house,  I  was  in  a  better  place. 

THEY  were  putting  Punch  to  bed — the  ayah  and  the 
hamal  and  Meeta,  the  big  Surti  boy,  with  the  red  and 
gold  turban.  Judy,  already  tucked  inside  her  mosquito- 
curtains,  was  nearly  asleep.  Punch  had  been  allowed 
to  stay  up  for  dinner.  Many  privileges  had  been  ac- 
corded to  Punch  within  the  last  ten  days,  and  a  greater 
kindness  from  the  people  of  his  world  had  encompassed 
his  ways  and  works,  which  were  mostly  obstreperous. 
He  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  bed  and  swung  his  bare  legs 
defiantly. 

'Punch-baba  going  to  bye-lo?'  said  the  ayah  sug- 
gestively. 

'No,'  said  Punch.  ' Punch- baba  wants  the  story 
about  the  Ranee  that  was  turned  into  a  tiger.  Meeta 
must  tell  it,  and  the  hamal  shall  hide  behind  the  door 
and  make  tiger-noises  at  the  proper  time.' 

'But  Judy-baba  will  wake  up/  said  the  ayah. 

(]udy-baba  is  waked/  piped  a  small  voice  from  the 

240 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP  241 

mosquito-curtains.  'There  was  a  Ranee  that  lived  at 
Delhi.  Go  on,  Meeta,'  and  she  fell  fast  asleep  again 
while  Meeta  began  the  story. 

Never  had  Punch  secured  the  telling  of  that  tale 
with  so  little  opposition.  He  reflected  for  a  long  time. 
The  hamal  made  the  tiger-noises  in  twenty  different 
keys. 

"Top!'  said  Punch  authoritatively.  'Why  doesn't 
Papa  come  in  and  say  he  is  going  to  give  me  piU-put  ?' 

'Punch-baba  is  going  away,'  said  the  ayah.  'In  an- 
other week  there  will  be  no  Punch-baba  to  pull  my  hair 
any  more.'  She  sighed  softly,  for  the  boy  of  the  house- 
hold was  very  dear  to  her  heart. 

'Up  the  Ghauts  in  a  train?'  said  Punch,  standing  on 
his  bed.  'All  the  way  to  Nassick  where  the  Ranee- 
Tiger  lives?' 

'Not  to  Nassick  this  year,  little  Sahib,'  said  Meeta, 
lifting  him  on  his  shoulder.  'Down  to  the  sea 
where  the  cocoanuts  are  thrown,  and  across  the 
sea  in  a  big  ship.  Will  you  take  Meeta  with  you  to 
Belait  ?' 

'You  shall  all  come,'  said  Punch,  from  the  height  of 
Meeta's  strong  arms.  'Meeta  and  the  ayah  and  the 
hamal  and  Bhim'-in-the-Garden,  and  the  salaam-Cap- 
tain-Sahib-snake-man.' 

There  was  no  mockery  in  Meeta's  voice  when  he 
replied — 'Great  is  the  Sahib's  favour/  and  laid  the 
little  man  down  in  the  bed,  while  the  ayah,  sitting  in 
the  moonlight  at  the  doorway,  lulled  him  to  sleep  with 
an  interminable  canticle  such  as  they  sing  in  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church  at  Parel.  Punch  curled  himself  into 
a  ball  and  slept. 

Next  morning  Judy  shouted  that  there  was  a  rat  in 
the  nursery,  and  thus  he  forgot  to  tell  her  the  wonder- 


a42  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

ful  news.  It  did  not  much  matter,  for  Judy  was  only 
three  and  she  would  not  have  understood.  But  Punch 
was  five;  and  he  knew  that  going  to  England  would  be 
much  nicer  than  a  trip  to  Nassick. 


Papa  and  Mamma  sold  the  brougham  and  the  piano, 
arid  stripped  the  house,  and  curtailed  the  allowance  of 
crockery  for  the  daily  meals,  and  took  long  council  to- 
gether over  a  bundle  of  letters  bearing  the  Rocklington 
postmark. 

'The  worst  of  it  is  that  one  can't  be  certain  of  any- 
thing,' said  Papa,  pulling  his  moustache.  '  The  letters  in 
themselves  are  excellent,  and  the  terms  are  moderate 
enough.' 

'The  worst  of  it  is  that  the  children  will  grow  up 
away  from  me/  thought  Mamma:  but  she  did  not  say  it 
aloud. 

'We  are  only  one  case  among  hundreds/  said 
Papa  bitterly.  'You  shall  go  Home  again  in  five  years, 
dear.' 

'  Punch  will  be  ten  then — and  Judy  eight.  Oh,  how  long 
and  long  and  long  the  time  will  be!  And  we  have  to 
leave  them  among  strangers.' 

'Punch  is  a  cheery  little  chap.  He's  sure  to  make 
friends  wherever  he  goes.' 

'And  who  could  help  loving  my  Ju? ' 

They  were  standing  over  the  cots  in  the  nursery  late  at 
night,  and  I  think  that  Mamma  was  crying  softly.  After 
Papa  had  gone  away,  she  knelt  down  by  the  side  of  Judy's 
cot.  The  ayah  saw  her  and  put  up  a  prayer  that  the 
memsahib  might  never  find  the  love  of  her  children  taken 
away  from  her  and  given  to  a  stranger. 

Mamma's  own  prayer  was  a  slightly  illogical  one. 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP  243 

Summarised  it  ran:  'Let  strangers  love  my  children  and 
be  as  good  to  them  as  I  should  be,  but  let  me  preserve 
their  love  and  their  confidence  for  ever  and  ever.  Amen.' 
Punch  scratched  himself  in  his  sleep,  and  Judy  moaned  a 
little. 

Next  day,  they  all  went  down  to  the  sea,  and  there  was 
a  scene  at  the  Apollo  Bunder  when  Punch  discovered  that 
Meeta  could  not  come  too,  and  Judy  learned  that  the  ayah 
must  be  left  behind.  But  Punch  found  a  thousand  fasci- 
nating things  hi  the  rope,  block,  and  steam-pipe  line  on  the 
big  P.  and  O.  Steamer  long  before  Meeta  and  the  ayah 
had  dried  their  tears. 

'  Come  back,  Punch-6a£a,'  said  the  ayah. 

1  Come  back,'  said  Meeta, '  and  be.  a  Buna  Sahib '  (a  big 
man). 

'  Yes,'  said  Punch,  lifted  up  in  his  father's  arms  to  wave 
good-bye.  '  Yes,  I  will  come  back,  and  I  will  be  a  Buna 
Sahib  Bahadur  I '  (a  very  big  man  indeed). 

At  the  end  of  the  first  day  Punch  demanded  to 
be  set  down  in  England,  which  he  was  certain  must 
be  close  at  hand.  Next  day  there  was  a  merry  breeze, 
and  Punch  was  very  sick.  'When  I  come  back  to 
Bombay,'  said  Punch  on  his  recovery,  'I  will  come 
by  the  road — in  a  broom-gharri.  This  is  a  very  naughty 
ship.' 

The  Swedish  boatswain  consoled  him,  and  he  modified 
his  opinions  as  the  voyage  went  on.  There  was  so  much 
to  see  and  to  handle  and  ask  questions  about  that  Punch 
nearly  forgot  the  ayah  and  Meeta  and  the  hamal,  and  with 
difficulty  remembered  a  few  words  of  the  Hindustani,  once 
his  second-speech. 

But  Judy  was  much  worse.  The  day  before  the  steamer 
reached  Southampton,  Mamma  asked  her  if  she  would 
not  like  to  see  the  ayah  again.  Judy's  blue  eyes  turned 


244  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

to  the  stretch  of  sea  that  had  swallowed  all  her  tiny  past, 
and  said : '  A  yah  !  What  ayah  ? ' 

Mamma  cried  over  her  and  Punch  marvelled.  It  was 
then  that  he  heard  for  the  first  time  Mamma's  passionate 
appeal  to  him  never  to  let  Judy  forget  Mamma.  Seeing 
that  Judy  was  young,  ridiculously  young,  and  that 
Mamma,  every  evening  for  four  weeks  past,  had  come 
into  the  cabin  to  sing  her  and  Punch  to  sleep  with 
a  mysterious  tune  that  he  called  'Sonny,  my  soul,' 
Punch  could  not  understand  what  Mamma  meant. 
But  he  strove  to  do  his  duty;  for,  the  moment  Mamma 
left  the  cabin,  he  said  to  Judy:  'Ju,  you  bemember 
Mamma? ' 

'  'Torse  I  do/  said  Judy. 

'Then  always  bemember  Mamma,  'r  else  I  won't  give 
you  the  paper  ducks  that  the  red-haired  Captain  Sahib 
cut  out  for  me.' 

So  Judy  promised  always  to  'bemember  Mamma.' 

Many  and  many  a  time  was  Mamma's  command  laid 
upon  Punch,  and  Papa  would  say  the  same  thing  with  an 
insistence  that  awed  the  child. 

'You  must  make  haste  and  learn  to  write,  Punch,'  said 
Papa,  'and  then  you'll  be  able  to  write  letters  to  us  in 
Bombay.' 

'I'll  come  into  your  room,'  said  Punch,  and  Papa 
choked. 

Papa  and  Mamma  were  always  choking  in  those  days. 
If  Punch  took  Judy  to  task  for  not  'bemembering,'  they 
choked.  If  Punch  sprawled  on  the  sofa  in  the  Southamp- 
ton lodging-house  and  sketched  his  future  in  purple  and 
gold,  they  choked;  and  so  they  did  if  Judy  put  her  mouth 
for  a  kiss. 

Through  many  days  all  four  were  vagabonds  on  the 
face  of  the  earth — Punch  with  no  one  to  give  orders  to, 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP  245 

Judy  too  young  for  anything,  and  Papa  and  Mamma 
grave,  distracted,  and  choking. 

'Where,'  demanded  Punch,  wearied  of  a  loathsome 
contrivance  on  four  wheels  with  a  mound  of  luggage  atop 
— 'wJiere  is  our  broom-gharri  ?  This  thing  talks  so  much 
that  /  can't  talk.  Where  is  our  own  broom-gharri  ?  When 
I  was  at  Bandstand  before  we  corned  away,  I  asked  Inver- 
arity  Sahib  why  he  was  sitting  in  it,  and  he  said  it  was  his 
own.  And  I  said,  "I  will  give  it  you" — I  like  Inverarity 
Sahib— and  I  said,  "Can  you  put  your  legs  through  the 
pully-wag  loops  by  the  windows?"  And  Inverarity 
Sahib  said  No,  and  laughed.  /  can  put  my  legs  through 
the  pully-wag  loops.  I  can  put  my  legs  through  these 
pully-wag  loops.  Look!  Oh,  Mamma's  crying  again! 
I  didn't  know  I  wasn't  not  to  do  so.' 

Punch  drew  his  legs  out  of  the  loops  of  the  fourwheeler: 
the  door  opened  and  he  slid  to  the  earth,  in  a  cascade  of 
parcels,  at  the  door  of  an  austere  little  villa  whose  gates 
bore  the  legend  '  Downe  Lodge.'  Punch  gathered  himself 
together  and  eyed  the  house  with  disfavour.  It  stood  on 
a  sandy  road,  and  a  cold  wind  tickled  his  knickerbock- 
ered  legs. 

'Let  us  go  away,' said  Punch.   'This  is  not  a  pretty  place.' 

But  Mamma  and  Papa  and  Judy  had  left  the  cab,  and 
all  the  luggage  was  being  taken  into  the  house.  At  the 
doorstep  stood  a  woman  hi  black,  and  she  smiled  largely, 
with  dry  chapped  lips.  Behind  her  was  a  man,  big,  bony, 
gray,  and  lame  as  to  one  leg — behind  him  a  boy  of  twelve, 
black-haired  and  oily  in  appearance.  Punch  surveyed 
the  trio,  and  advanced  without  fear,  as  he  had  been  ac- 
customed to  do  in  Bombay  when  callers  came  and  he 
happened  to  be  playing  in  the  veranda. 

'How  do  you  do?' said  he.  'I  am  Punch.'  But  they 
fjfere  all  looking  at  the  luggage — all  except  the  gray  man, 


246  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

who  shook  hands  with  Punch,  and  said  he  was  '  a  smart 
little  fellow.'  There  was  much  running  about  and  bang- 
ing of  boxes,  and  Punch  curled  himself  up  on  the  sofa  in 
the  dining-room  and  considered  things. 

'I  don't  like  these  people,'  said  Punch.  'But  never 
mind.  We'll  go  away  soon.  We  have  always  went  away 
soon  from  everywhere.  I  wish  we  was  gone  back  to  Bom- 
bay soon.' 

The  wish  bore  no  fruit.  For  six  days  Mamma  wept 
at  intervals,  and  showed  the  woman  in  black  all 
Punch's  clothes — a  liberty  which  Punch  resented.  '  But 
p'raps  she's  a  new  white  ayah,'  he  thought.  '  I'm  to  call 
her  Antirosa,  but  she  doesn't  call  me  Sahib.  She 
says  just  Punch/  he  confided  to  Judy.  'What  is 
Antirosa? ' 

Judy  didn't  know.  Neither  she  nor  Punch  had  heard 
anything  of  an  animal  called  an  aunt.  Their  world  had 
been  Papa  and  Mamma,  who  knew  everything,  per- 
mitted everything,  and  loved  everybody — even  Punch 
when  he  used  to  go  into  the  garden  at  Bombay  and  fill  his 
nails  with  mould  after  the  weekly  nail-cutting,  because, 
as  he  explained  between  two  strokes  of  the  slipper  to 
his  sorely  tried  Father,  his  fingers  'felt  so  new  at  the 
ends.' 

In  an  undefined  way  Punch  judged  it  advisable  to  keep 
both  parents  between  himself  and  the  woman  in  black  and 
the  boy  in  black  hair.  He  did  not  approve  of  them.  He 
liked  the  gray  man,  who  had  expressed  a  wish  to  be 
called  'Uncleharri.'  They  nodded  at  each  other  when 
they  met,  and  the  gray  man  showed  him  a  little  ship  with 
rigging  that  took  up  and  down. 

'She  is  the  model  of  the  Brisk — the  little  Brisk  that 
was  sore  exposed  that  day  at  Navarino.'  The  gray  man 
hummed  the  last  words  and  fell  into  a  reverie.  'I'll  teli 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP  247 

you  about  Navarino,  Punch,  when  we  go  for  walks  to- 
gether; and  you  mustn't  touch  the  ship,  because  she's  the 
Brisk: 

Long  before  that  walk,  the  first  of  many,  was  taken, 
they  roused  Punch  and  Judy  in  the  chill  dawn  of  a 
February  morning  to  say  Good-bye;  and  of  all  people 
in  the  wide  earth  to  Papa  and  Mamma — both  cry- 
ing this  time.  Punch  was  very  sleepy  and  Judy  was 
cross. 

'Don't  forget  us/  pleaded  Mamma.  'Oh,  my  little 
son,  don't  forget  us,  and  see  that  Judy  remembers 
too.' 

'I've  told  Judy  to  bemember,'  said  Punch,  wriggling, 
for  his  father's  beard  tickled  his  neck.  '  I've  told  Judy- 
ten — forty — 'leven  thousand  times.  But  Ju's  so  young 
—quite  a  baby — isn't  she? ' 

'Yes,'  said  Papa,  'quite  a  baby,  and  you  must  be  good 
to  Judy,  and  make  haste  to  learn  to  write  and — and — • 
and- 

Punch  was  back  in  his  bed  again.  Judy  was  fast  asleep, 
and  there  was  the rattleof  acab  below.  Papa  and  Mamma 
had  gone  away.  Not  to  Nassick;  that  was  across  the  sea. 
To  some  place  much  nearer,  of  course,  and  equally  of 
course  they  would  return.  They  came  back  after  dinner- 
parties, and  Papa  had  come  back  after  he  had  been  to  a 
place  called  'The  Snows,'  and  Mamma  with  him,  to  Punch 
and  Judy  at  Mrs.  Inverarity's  house  in  Marine  Lines. 
Assuredly  they  would  come  back  again.  So  Punch  fell 
asleep  till  the  true  morning,  when  the  black-haired  boy 
met  him  with  the  information  that  Papa  and  Mamma  had 
gone  to  Bombay,  and  that  he  and  Judy  were  to  stay  at 
Downe  Lodge  '  for  ever.'  Antirosa,  tearfully  appealed  to 
for  a  contradiction,  said  that  Harry  had  spoken  the  truth, 
and  that  it  behooved  Punch  to  fold  up  his  clothes  neatly 


248  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

on  going  to  bed.  Punch  went  out  and  wept  bitterly  with 
Judy,  into  whose  fair  head  he  had  driven  some  ideas  of  the 
meaning  of  separation. 

When  a  matured  man  discovers  that  he  has  been 
deserted  by  Providence,  deprived  of  his  God,  and  cast, 
without  help,  comfort,  or  sympathy,  upon  a  world  which 
is  new  and  strange  to  him,  his  despair,  which  may  rind 
expression  in  evil-living,  the  writing  of  his  experiences,  or 
the  more  satisfactory  diversion  of  suicide,  is  generally 
supposed  to  be  impressive.  A  child,  under  exactly  simi- 
lar circumstances  as  far  as  its  knowledge  goes,  cannot 
very  well  curse  God  and  die.  It  howls  till  its  nose  is  red, 
its  eyes  are  sore,  and  its  head  aches.  Punch  and  Judy, 
through  no  fault  of  their  own,  had  lost  all  their  world. 
They  sat  in  the  hall  and  cried;  the  black-haired  boy  look- 
ing on  from  afar. 

The  model  of  the  ship  availed  nothing,  though  the  gray 
man  assured  Punch  that  he  might  pull  the  rigging  up  and 
down  as  much  as  he  pleased;  and  Judy  was  promised  free 
entry  into  the  kitchen.  They  wanted  Papa  and  Mamma 
gone  to  Bombay  beyond  the  seas,  and  their  grief  while  it 
lasted  was  without  remedy. 

When  the  tears  ceased  the  house  was  very  still.  Anti- 
rosa  had  decided  that  it  was  better  to  let  the  children 
'have  their  cry  out,'  and  the  boy  had  gone  to  school. 
Punch  raised  his  head  from  the  floor  and  sniffed  mourn- 
fully. Judy  was  nearly  asleep.  Three  short  years  had 
not  taught  her  how  to  bear  sorrow  with  full  knowledge. 
There  was  a  distant,  dull  boom  in  the  air— a  repeated 
heavy  thud.  Punch  knew  that  sound  in  Bombay  in  the 
Monsoon.  It  was  the  sea — the  sea  that  must  be  trav- 
ersed before  any  one  could  get  to  Bombay. 

'Quick,  Ju!'  he  cried,  'we're  close  to  the  sea.  I  can 
hear  it!  Listen!  That's  where  they've  went.  P'raps 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP  249 

we  can  catch  them  if  we  was  in  time.  They  didn't  mean 
to  go  without  us.  They've  only  forgot.' 

'Iss,'  said  Judy.  "They've  only  forgotted.  Less  go 
to  the  sea.' 

The  hall-door  was  open  and  so  was  the  garden-gate. 

'It's  very,  very  big,  this  place,'  he  said,  looking  cau- 
tiously down  the  road,  'and  we  will  get  lost;  but  /  will 
find  a  man  and  order  him  to  take  me  back  to  my  house 
—like  I  did  in  Bombay.' 

He  took  Judy  by  the  hand,  and  the  two  ran  hatless 
in  the  direction  of  the  sound  of  the  sea.  Downe  Villa 
was  almost  the  last  of  a  range  of  newly-built  houses 
running  out,  through  a  field  of  brick-mounds,  to  a  heath 
where  gypsies  occasionally  camped  and  where  the  Gar- 
rison Artillery  of  Rocklington  practised.  There  were 
few  people  to  be  seen,  and  the  children  might  have  been 
taken  for  those  of  the  soldiery  who  ranged  far.  Half 
an  hour  the  wearied  little  legs  tramped  across  heath, 
potato-patch,  and  sand-dune. 

'I'se  so  tired,'  said  Judy,  'and  Mamma  will  be 
angry.' 

'Mamma's  never  angry.  I  suppose  she  is  waiting  at 
the  sea  now  while  Papa  gets  tickets.  We'll  find  them 
and  go  along  with.  Ju,  you  mustn't  sit  down.  Only 
a  little  more  and  we'll  come  to  the  sea.  Ju,  if  you  sit 
down  I'll  thmack  you ! '  said  Punch. 

They  climbed  another  dune,  and  came  upon  the  great 
gray  sea  at  low  tide.  Hundreds  of  crabs  were  scuttling 
about  the  beach,  but  there  was  no  trace  of  Papa  and 
Mamma,  not  even  of  a  ship  upon  the  waters — nothing 
but  sand  and  mud  for  miles  and  miles. 

And  'Uncleharri'  found  them  by  chance — very 
muddy  and  very  forlorn — Punch  dissolved  in  tears, 
but  trying  to  divert  Judy  with  an  'ickle  trab,'  and  Judy 


250  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

wailing  to  the  pitiless  horizon  for  'Mamma,  Mamma!'— 
and  again  'Mamma!' 

THE  SECOND  BAG 

Ah,  well-a-day,  for  we  are  souls  bereaved! 
Of  all  the  creatures  under  Heaven's  wide  scope 
We  are  most  hopeless,  who  had  once  most  hope, 
And  most  beliefless,  who  had  most  believed. 

The  City  of  Dreadful' Night. 

ALL  this  time  not  a  word  about  Black  Sheep.  He 
came  later,  and  Harry  the  black-haired  boy  was  mainly 
responsible  for  his  coming. 

Judy — who  could  help  loving  little  Judy? — passed, 
by  special  permit,  into  the  kitchen  and  thence  straight 
to  Aunty  Rosa's  heart.  Harry  was  Aunty  Rosa's  one 
child,  and  Punch  was  the  extra  boy  about  the  house. 
There  was  no  special  place  for  him  or  his  little  affairs, 
and  he  was  forbidden  to  sprawl  on  sofas  and  explain  his 
ideas  about  the  manufacture  of  this  world  and  his  hopes 
for  his  future.  Sprawling  was  lazy  and  wore  out  sofas, 
and  little  boys  were  not  expected  to  talk.  They  were 
talked  to,  and  the  talking  to  was  intended  for  the  bene- 
fit of  their  morals.  As  the  unquestioned  despot  of  the 
house  at  Bombay,  Punch  could  not  quite  understand 
how  he  came  to  be  of  no  account  in  this  his  new  life. 

Harry  might  reach  across  the  table  and  take  what  he 
wanted;  Judy  might  point  and  get  what  she  wanted. 
Punch  was  forbidden  to  do  either.  The  gray  man  was 
his  great  hope  and  stand-by  for  many  months  after 
Mamma  and  Papa  left,  and  he  had  forgotten  to  tell 
Judy  to  'bemember  Mamma.' 

This  lapse  was  excusable,  because  in  the  interval 
he  had  been  introduced  by  Aunty  Rosa  to  two  very 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP  251 

impressive  things — an  abstraction  called  God,  the  inti- 
mate friend  and  ally  of  Aunty  Rosa,  generally  believed 
to  live  behind  the  kitchen-range  because  it  was  hot 
there — and  a  dirty  brown  book  filled  with  unintelli- 
gible dots  and  marks.  Punch  was  always  anxious  to 
oblige  everybody.  He  therefore  welded  the  story  of 
the  Creation  on  to  what  he  could  recollect  of  his  Indian 
fairy  tales,  and  scandalised  Aunty  Rosa  by  repeating 
the  result  to  Judy.  It  was  a  sin,  a  grievous  sin,  and 
Punch  was  talked  to  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  He 
could  not  understand  where  the  iniquity  came  in,  but 
was  careful  not  to  repeat  the  offence,  because  Aunty 
Rosa  told  him  that  God  had  heard  every  word  he  had 
said  and  was  very  angry.  If  this  were  true,  why  didn't 
God  come  and  say  so,  thought  Punch,  and  dismissed 
the  matter  from  his  mind.  Afterwards  he  learned  to 
know  the  Lord  as  the  only  thing  in  the  world  more  awful 
than  Aunty  Rosa — as  a  Creature  that  stood  in  the  back- 
ground and  counted  the  strokes  of  the  cane. 

But  the  reading  was,  just  then,  a  much  more  serious 
matter  than  any  creed.  Aunty  Rosa  sat  him  upon  a 
table  and  told  him  that  A  B  meant  ab. 

'Why?'  said  Punch.  'A  is  a  and  B  is  bee.  Why 
does  A  B  mean  ab?' 

'Because  I  tell  you  it  does,'  said  Aunty  Rosa,  'and 
you've  got  to  say  it.' 

Punch  said  it  accordingly,  and  for  a  month,  hugely 
against  his  will,  stumbled  through  the  brown  book,  not 
in  the  least  comprehending  what  it  meant.  But  Uncle 
Harry,  who  walked  much  and  generally  alone,  was  wont 
to  come  into  the  nursery  and  suggest  to  Aunty  Rosa 
that  Punch  should  walk  with  him.  He  seldom  spoke, 
but  he  showed  Punch  all  Rocklington,  from  the  mud- 
banks  and  the  sand  of  the  back-bay  to  the  great  bar- 


as*  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

hours  where  ships  lay  at  anchor,  and  the  dockyards 
where  the  hammers  were  never  still,  and  the  marine- 
store  shops,  and  the  shiny  brass  counters  in  the  Offices 
where  Uncle  Harry  went  once  every  three  months  with  a 
slip  of  blue  paper  and  received  sovereigns  in  exchange; 
for  he  held  a  wound-pension.  Punch  heard,  too,  from 
his  lips  the  story  of  the  battle  of  Navarino,  where  the 
sailors  of  the  Fleet,  for  three  days  afterwards,  were  deaf 
as  posts  and  could  only  sign  to  each  other.  'That  was 
because  of  the  noise  of  the  guns,'  said  Uncle  Harry, 
'and  I  have  got  the  wadding  of  a  bullet  somewhere 
inside  me  now.' 

Punch  regarded  him  with  curiosity.  He  had  not  the 
least  idea  what  wadding  was,  and  his  notion  of  a  bullet 
was  a  dockyard  cannon-ball  bigger  than  his  own  head. 
How  could  Uncle  Harry  keep  a  cannon-ball  inside  him? 
He  was  ashamed  to  ask,  for  fear  Uncle  Harry  might  be 
angry. 

Punch  had  never  known  what  anger — real  anger- 
meant  until  one  terrible  day  when  Harry  had  taken 
his  paint-box  to  paint  a  boat  with,  and  Punch  had  pro- 
tested. Then  Uncle  Harry  had  appeared  on  the  scene 
and,  muttering  something  about  'strangers'  children,' 
had  with  a  stick  smitten  the  black-haired  boy  across 
the  shoulders  till  he  wept  and  yelled,  and  Aunty  Rosa 
came  in  and  abused  Uncle  Harry  for  cruelty  to  his  own 
flesh  and  blood,  and  Punch  shuddered  to  the  tips  of  his 
shoes.  'It  wasn't  my  fault,'  he  explained  to  the  boy, 
but  both  Harry  and  Aunty  Rosa  said  that  it  was,  and 
that  Punch  had  told  tales,  and  for  a  week  there  were  no 
more  walks  with  Uncle  Harry. 

But  that  week  brought  a  great  joy  to  Punch. 

He  had  repeated  till  he  was  thrice  weary  the  state- 
ment that '  the  Cat  lay  on  the  Mat  and  the  Rat  came  in.' 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP  255 

'Now  I  can  truly  read,'  said  Punch,  'and  now  I  will 
never  read  anything  in  the  world.' 

He  put  the  brown  book  in  the  cupboard  where  his 
school-books  lived  and  accidentally  tumbled  out  a 
venerable  volume,  without  covers,  labelled  Sharpens 
Magazine.  There  was  the  most  portentous  picture  of  a 
griffin  on  the  first  page,  with  verses  below.  The  griffin 
carried  off  one  sheep  a  day  from  a  German  village,  till 
a  man  came  with  a  'falchion'  and  split  the  griffin  open. 
Goodness  only  knew  what  a  falchion  was,  but  there  was 
the  Griffin,  and  his  history  was  an  improvement  upon  the 
eternal  Cat. 

'This,'  said  Punch,  'means  things,  and  now  I  will 
know  all  about  everything  in  all  the  world.'  He  read 
till  the  light  failed,  not  understanding  a  tithe  of  the 
meaning,  but  tantalised  by  glimpses  of  new  worlds  here- 
after to  be  revealed. 

'What  is  a  "falchion"?  What  is  a  "e-wee  lamb"? 
What  is  a  "base  wssurper"?  What  is  a  "verdant  me- 
ad"?' he  demanded  with  flushed  cheeks,  at  bedtime,  of 
the  astonished  Aunty  Rosa. 

'Say  your  prayers  and  go  to  sleep,'  she  replied,  and 
that  was  all  the  help  Punch  then  or  afterwards  found 
at  her  hands  in  the  new  and  delightful  exercise  of  reading. 

'Aunty  Rosa  only  knows  about  God  and  things  like 
that,'  argued  Punch.  'Uncle  Harry  will  tell  me.' 

The  next  walk  proved  that  Uncle  Harry  could  not 
help  either;  but  he  allowed  Punch  to  talk,  and  even 
sat  down  on  a  bench  to  hear  about  the  Griffin.  Other 
walks  brought  other  stories  as  Punch  ranged  further 
afield,  for  the  house  held  large  store  of  old  books  that 
no  one  ever  opened — from  Frank  Fairlegh  in  serial 
numbers,  and  the  earlier  poems  of  Tennyson,  con- 
tributed anonymously  to  Sharpens  Magazine,  to  '62  Exhi- 


254  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

bition  Catalogues,  gay  with  colours  and  delightfully  in- 
comprehensible, and  odd  leaves  of  Gulliver's  Travels. 

As  soon  as  Punch  could  string  a  few  pot-hooks  to- 
gether, he  wrote  to  Bombay,  demanding  by  return  of 
post  'all  the  books  in  all  the  world.'  Papa  could  not 
comply  with  this  modest  indent,  but  sent  Grimm's  Fairy 
Tales  and  a  Hans  Andersen.  That  was  enough.  If  he 
were  only  left  alone  Punch  could  pass,  at  any  hour  he 
chose,  into  a  land  of  his  own,  beyond  reach  of  Aunty 
Rosa  and  her  God,  Harry  and  his  teasements,  and 
Judy's  claims  to  be  played  with. 

'Don't  disturve  me,  I'm  reading.  Go  and  play  in 
the  kitchen/  grunted  Punch.  'Aunty  Rosa  lets  you  go 
there.'  Judy  was  cutting  her  second  teeth  and  was 
fretful.  She  appealed  to  Aunty  Rosa,  who  descended 
on  Punch. 

'I  was  reading,'  he  explained,  'reading  a  book.  I 
want  to  read.' 

'You're  only  doing  that  to  show  off,'  said  Aunty 
Rosa.  'But  we'll  see.  Play  with  Judy  now,  and  don't 
open  a  book  for  a  week.' 

Judy  did  not  pass  a  very  enjoyable  playtime  with 
Punch,  who  was  consumed  with  indignation.  There 
was  a  pettiness  at  the  bottom  of  the  prohibition  which 
puzzled  him. 

'It's  what  I  like  to  do,'  he  said,  'and  she's  found 
out  that  and  stopped  me.  Don't  cry,  Ju — it  wasn't 
your  fault — please  don't  cry,  or  she'll  say  I  made  you.' 

Ju  loyally  mopped  up  her  tears,  and  the  two  played 
in  their  nursery,  a  room  in  the  basement  and  half  under- 
ground, to  which  they  were  regularly  sent  after  the  mid- 
day dinner  while  Aunty  Rosa  slept.  She  drank  wine 
— that  is  to  say,  something  from  a  bottle  hi  the  cellaret — • 
for  her  stomach's  sake,  but  if  she  did  not  fall  asleep  she 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP  255 

would  sometimes  come  into  the  nursery  to  see  that  the 
children  were  really  playing.  Now  bricks,  wooden  hoops, 
ninepins,  and  chinaware  cannot  amuse  for  ever,  especially 
when  all  Fairyland  is  to  be  won  by  the  mere  opening  of 
a  book,  and,  as  often  as  not,  Punch  would  be  discovered 
reading  to  Judy  or  telling  her  interminable  tales.  That 
was  an  offence  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  and  Judy  would  be 
whisked  off  by  Aunty  Rosa,  while  Punch  was  left  to  play 
alone,  'and  be  sure  that  I  hear  you  doing  it.' 

It  was  not  a  cheering  employ,  for  he  had  to  make  a 
playful  noise.  At  last,  with  infinite  craft,  he  devised 
an  arrangement  whereby  the  table  could  be  supported 
as  to  three  legs  on  toy  bricks,  leaving  the  fourth  clear 
to  bring  down  on  the  floor.  He  would  work  the  table 
with  one  hand  and  hold  a  book  with  the  other.  This 
he  did  till  an  evil  day  when  Aunty  Rosa  pounced  upon 
him  unawares  and  told  him  that  he  was  'acting  a  lie.' 

'If  you're  old  enough  to  do  that,'  she  said — her  tem- 
per was  always  worst  after  dinner — 'you're  old  enough 
to  be  beaten.' 

'But — I'm — I'm  not  a  animal!'  said  Punch  aghast. 
He  remembered  Uncle  Harry  and  the  stick,  and  turned 
white.  Aunty  Rosa  had  hidden  a  light  cane  behind 
her.  and  Punch  was  beaten  then  and  there  over  the 
shoulders.  It  was  a  revelation  to  him.  The  room-door 
was  shut,  and  he  was  left  to  weep  himself  into  repent- 
ance and  work  out  his  own  gospel  of  life. 

Aunty  Rosa,  he  argued,  had  the  power  to  beat  him  with 
many  stripes.  It  was  unjust  and  cruel,  and  Mamma  and 
Papa  would  never  have  allowed  it.  Unless  perhaps,  as 
Aunty  Rosa  seemed  to  imply,  they  had  sent  secret  orders. 
In  which  case  he  was  abandoned  indeed.  It  would  be 
discreet  in  the  future  to  propitiate  Aunty  Rosa,  but,  then, 
again,  even  in  matters  in  which  he  was  innocent,  he  had 


256  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

been  accused  of  wishing  to  •'  show  off.'  He  had '  shown  off' 
before  visitors  when  he  had  attacked  a  strange  gentleman 
— Harry's  uncle,  not  his  own — with  requests  for  infor- 
mation about  the  Griffin  and  the  falchion,  and  the  precise 
nature  of  the  Tilbury  in  which  Frank  Fairlegh  rode — all 
points  of  paramount  interest  which  he  was  bursting  to 
understand.  Clearly  it  would  not  do  to  pretend  to  care 
for  Aunty  Rosa. 

At  this  point  Harry  entered  and  stood  afar  off,  eying 
Punch,  a  dishevelled  heap  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  with 
disgust. 

'  You're  a  liar — a  young  liar,'  said  Harry,  with  great 
unction, '  and  you're  to  have  tea  down  here  because  you're 
not  fit  to  speak  to  us.  And  you're  not  to  speak  to  Judy 
again  till  Mother  gives  you  leave.  You'll  corrupt  her. 
You're  only  fit  to  associate  with  the  servant.  Mother 
says  so.' 

Having  reduced  Punch  to  a  second  agony  of  tears, 
Harry  departed  upstairs  with  the  news  that  Punch  was 
still  rebellious. 

Uncle  Harry  sat  uneasily  in  the  dining-room.  'Damn 
it  all,  Rosa,'  said  he  at  last,  'can't  you  leave  the  child 
alone?  He's  a  good  enough  little  chap  when  I  meet 
him.' 

'He  puts  on  his  best  manners  with  you,  Henry,'  said 
Aunty  Rosa,  'but  I'm  afraid,  I'm  very  much  afraid,  that 
he  is  the  Black  Sheep  of  the  family.' 

Harry  heard  and  stored  up  the  name  for  future  use. 
Judy  cried  till  she  was  bidden  to  stop,  her  brother  not 
being  worth  tears;  and  the  evening  concluded  with  the  re- 
turn of  Punch  to  the  upper  regions  and  a  private  sitting  at 
which  all  the  blinding  horrors  of  Hell  were  revealed  to 
Punch  with  such  store  of  imagery  as  Aunty  Rosa's  narrow 
mind  possessed. 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP  257 

Most  previous  of  all  was  Judy's  round-eyed  reproach, 
and  Punch  went  to  bed  in  the  depths  of  the  Valley  of  Hu- 
miliation. He  shared  his  room  with  Harry  and  knew  the 
torture  in  store.  For  an  hour  and  a  half  he  had  to  answer 
that  young  gentleman's  question  as  to  his  motives  for 
telling  a  lie,  and  a  grievous  lie,  the  precise  quantity  of 
punishment  inflicted  by  Aunty  Rosa,  and  had  also  to  pro- 
fess his  deep  gratitude  for  such  religious  instruction  as 
Harry  thought  fit  to  impart. 

From  that  day  began  the  downfall  of  Punch,  now  Black 
Sheep. 

'Untrustworthy  in  one  thing,  untrustworthy  in  all/ 
said  Aunty  Rosa,  and  Harry  felt  that  Black  Sheep  was 
delivered  into  his  hands.  He  would  wake  him  up  in  the 
night  to  ask  him  why  he  was  such  a  liar. 

'  I  don't  know,'  Punch  would  reply. 

'Then  don't  you  think  you  ought  to  get  up  and  pray  to 
God  for  a  new  heart? ' 

'Y-yess.' 

'  Get  out  and  pray,  then ! '  And  Punch  would  get  out  of 
bed  with  raging  hate  in  his  heart  against  all  the  world, 
seen  and  unseen.  He  was  always  tumbling  into  trouble. 
Harry  had  a  knack  of  cross-examining  him  as  to  his  day's 
doings,  which  seldom  failed  to  lead  him,  sleepy  and  savage, 
into  half  a  dozen  contradictions — all  duly  reported  to 
Aunty  Rosa  next  morning. 

'  But  it  wasn't  a  lie,'  Punch  would  begin,  charging  into 
a  laboured  explanation  that  landed  him  more  hopelessly 
in  the  mire.  'I  said  that  I  didn't  say  my  prayers  twice 
over  in  the  day,  and  that  was  on  Tuesday.  Once  I  did.  I 
know  I  did,  but  Harry  said  I  didn't,'  and  so  forth,  till  the 
tension  brought  tears,  and  he  was  dismissed  from  the  table 
in  disgrace. 

'  You  usen't  to  be  as  bad  as  this,'  said  Judy,  awestricken 


258  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

at  the  catalogue  of  Black  Sheep's  crimes.  'Why  are  you 
so  bad  now? ' 

'  I  don't  know,'  Black  Sheep  would  reply.  '  I'm  not,  if 
I  only  wasn't  bothered  upside  down.  I  knew  what  I  did, 
and  I  want  to  say  so;  but  Harry  always  makes  it  out 
different  somehow,  and  Aunty  Rosa  doesn't  believe  a 
word  I  say.  Oh,  Ju !  don't  you  say  I'm  bad  too.' 

'Aunty  Rosa  says  you  are,'  said  Judy.  'She  told  the 
Vicar  so  when  he  came  yesterday.' 

'Why  does  she  tell  all  the  people  outside  the  house 
about  me?  It  isn't  fair,'  said  Black  Sheep.  '  When  I  was 
in  Bombay,  and  was  bad— doing  bad,  not  made-up  bad 
like  this — Mamma  told  Papa,  and  Papa  told  me  he  knew, 
and  that  was  all.  Outside  people  didn't  know  too — even 
Meeta  didn't  know.' 

'I  don't  remember,'  said  Judy  wistfully.  'I  was  all 
^ttle  then.  Mamma  was  just  as  fond  of  you  as  she  was  of 
me,  wasn't  she? ' 

'  'Course  she  was.    So  was  Papa.    So  was  everybody.' 

'Aunty  Rosa  likes  me  more  than  she  does  you.  She 
says  that  you  are  a  Trial  and  a  Black  Sheep,  and  I'm  not 
to  speak  to  you  more  than  I  can  help.' 

'Always?  Not  outside  of  the  times  when  you  mustn't 
speak  to  me  at  all? ' 

Judy  nodded  her  head  mournfully.  Black  Sheep 
turned  away  in  despair,  but  Judy's  arms  were  round  his 
neck. 

'Never  mind,  Punch,'  she  whispered.  'I  witt  speak  to 
you  just  the  same  as  ever  and  ever.  You're  my  own  own 
brother  though  you  are — though  Aunty  Rosa  says  you're 
Bad,  and  Harry  says  you're  a  little  coward.  He  says 
that  if  I  pulled  your  hair  hard,  you'd  cry.' 

'Pull,  then,'  said  Punch. 

Judy  pulled  gingerly. 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP  259 

'Pull  harder — as  hard  as  you  can!  There!  I  don't 
mind  how  much  you  pull  it  now.  If  you'll  speak  to  me 
same  as  ever  I'll  let  you  pull  it  as  much  as  you  like — pull  it 
out  if  you  like.  But  I  know  if  Harry  came  and  stood  by 
and  made  you  do  it  I'd  cry.' 

So  the  two  children  sealed  the  compact  with  a  kiss,  and 
Black  Sheep's  heart  was  cheered  within  him,  and  by  ex- 
treme caution  and  careful  avoidance  of  Harry  he  acquired 
virtue,  and  was  allowed  to  read  undisturbed  for  a  week. 
Uncle  Harry  took  him  for  walks,  and  consoled  him  with 
rough  tenderness,  never  calling  him  Black  Sheep.  'It's 
good  for  you,  I  suppose,  Punch,'  he  used  to  say.  'Let  us 
sit  down.  I'm  getting  tired.'  His  steps  led  him  now  not 
to  the  beach,  but  to  the  Cemetery  of  Rocklington,  amid 
the  potato-fields.  For  hours  the  gray  man  would  sit  on  a 
tombstone,  while  Black  Sheep  read  epitaphs,  and  then 
with  a  sigh  would  stump  home  again. 

'I  shall  lie  there  soon,'  said  he  to  Black  Sheep,  one 
winter  evening,  when  his  face  showed  white  as  a  worn 
silver  coin  under  the  light  of  the  lych-gate.  '  You  needn't 
tell  Aunty  Rosa.' 

A  month  later,  he  turned  sharp  round,  ere  half 
a  morning  walk  was  completed,  and  stumped  back 
to  the  house.  'Put  me  to  bed,  Rosa,'  he  muttered. 
'I've  walked  my  last.  The  wadding  has  found  me 
out.' 

They  put  him  to  bed,  and  for  a  fortnight  the  shadow  of 
his  sickness  lay  upon  the  house,  and  Black  Sheep  went  to 
and  fro  unobserved.  Papa  had  sent  him  some  new  books, 
and  he  was  told  to  keep  quiet.  He  retired  into  his  own 
world,  and  was  perfectly  happy.  Even  at  night  his 
felicity  was  unbroken.  He  could  lie  hi  bed  and  string 
himself  tales  of  travel  and  adventure  while  Harry  was 
downstairs. 


26o  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

1  Uncle  Harry's  going  to  die/  said  Judy,  who  now  lived 
almost  entirely  with  Aunty  Rosa. 

'I'm  very  sorry,'  said  Black  Sheep  soberly.  'He  told 
me  that  a  long  time  ago.' 

Aunty  Rosa  heard  the  conversation.  'Will  nothing 
check  your  wicked  tongue? '  she  said  angrily.  There  were 
blue  circles  round  her  eyes. 

Black  Sheep  retreated  to  the  nursery  and  read  Cometh 
up  as  a  Flower  with  deep  and  uncomprehending  interest. 
He  had  been  forbidden  to  open  it  on  account  of  its  '  sinful- 
ness/  but  the  bonds  of  the  Universe  were  crumbling,  and 
Aunty  Rosa  was  in  great  grief. 

'I'm  glad,'  said  Black  Sheep.  'She's  unhappy  now. 
It  wasn't  a  lie,  though.  /  knew.  He  told  me  not  to  tell.' 

That  night  Black  Sheep  woke  with  a  start.  Harry  was 
not  in  the  room,  and  there  was  a  sound  of  sobbing  on  the 
next  floor.  Then  the  voice  of  Uncle  Harry,  singing  the 
song  of  the  Battle  of  Navarino,  came  through  the  dark- 
ness:— 

'Our  vanship  was  the  Asia — 
The  Albion  and  Genoa!' 

'He's  getting  well,'  thought  Black  Sheep,  who  knew 
the  song  through  all  its  seventeen  verses.  But  the  blood 
froze  at  his  little  heart  as  he  thought.  The  voice  leapt  an 
octave,  and  rang  shrill  as  a  boatswain's  pipe:— 

'And  next  came  on  the  lovely  Rose, 
The  Philomel,  her  fire-ship,  closed, 
And  the  little  Brisk  was  sore  exposed 
That  day  at  Navarino.' 

"That  day  at  Navarino,  Uncle  Harry!'  shouted  Black 
Sheep,  half  wild  with  excitement  and  fear  of  he  knew  not 
what. 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP  261 

A  door  opened,  and  Aunty  Rosa  screamed  up  the  stair- 
case: 'Hush!  For  God's  sake  hush,  you  little  devil. 
Uncle  Harry  is  dead  ! ' 

THE  THIRD  BAG 

Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meeting, 
Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

'  I  WONDER  what  will  happen  to  me  now/  thought  Black 
Sheep,  when  semi-pagan  rites  peculiar  to  the  burial  of 
the  Dead  hi  middle-class  houses  had  been  accomplished, 
and  Aunty  Rosa,  awful  in  black  crape,  had  returned  to 
this  life.  '  I  don't  think  I've  done  anything  bad  that  she 
knows  of.  I  suppose  I  will  soon.  She  will  be  very  cross 
after  Uncle  Harry's  dying,  and  Harry  will  be  cross 
too.  I'll  keep  in  the  nursery.' 

Unfortunately  for  Punch's  plans,  it  was  decided  that  he 
should  be  sent  to  a  day-school  which  Harry  attended. 
This  meant  a  morning  walk  with  Harry,  and  perhaps  an 
evening  one;  but  the  prospect  of  freedom  in  the  interval 
was  refreshing.  'Harry'll  tell  everything  I  do,  but  I 
won't  do  anything,'  said  Black  Sheep.  Fortified  with 
this  virtuous  resolution,  he  went  to  school  only  to  find  that 
Harry's  version  of  his  character  had  preceded  him,  and 
that  life  was  a  burden  hi  consequence.  He  took  stock  of 
his  associates.  Some  of  them  were  unclean,  some  of  them 
talked  in  dialect,  many  dropped  their  h's,  and  there  were 
two  Jews  and  a  negro,  or  some  one  quite  as  dark,  in  the 
assembly.  'That's  a  hubshi,'  said  Black  Sheep  to  him- 
self. 'Even  Meeta  used  to  laugh  at  a  hubshi.  I  don't 
think  this  is  a  proper  place.'  He  was  indignant  for  at  least 
an  hour,  till  he  reflected  that  any  expostulation  on  his  part 
would  be  by  Aunty  Rosa  construed  into '  showing  off,'  and 
that  Harry  would  tell  the  boys. 


262  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

'How  do  you  like  school?'  said  Aunty  Rosa  at  the  end 
of  the  day. 

'I  think  it  is  a  very  nice  place/  said  Punch  quietly. 

'  I  suppose  you  warned  the  boys  of  Black  Sheep's  char- 
acter? '  said  Aunty  Rosa  to  Harry. 

'Oh  yes,'  said  the  censor  of  Black  Sheep's  morals. 
1  They  know  all  about  him.' 

'If  I  was  with  my  father,'  said  Black  Sheep,  stung  to 
the  quick, '  I  shouldn't  speak  to  those  boys.  He  wouldn't 
let  me.  They  live  in  shops.  I  saw  them  go  into  shops 
— where  their  fathers  live  and  sell  things.' 

1  You're  too  good  for  that  school,  are  you?'  said 
Aunty  Rosa,  with  a  bitter  smile.  'You  ought  to  be 
grateful,  Black  Sheep,  that  those  boys  speak  to  you  at 
all.  It  isn't  every  school  that  takes  little  liars.' 

Harry  did  not  fail  to  make  much  capital  out  of  Black 
Sheep's  ill-considered  remark;  with  the  result  that 
several  boys,  including  the  hubshi,  demonstrated  to 
Black  Sheep  the  eternal  equality  of  the  human  race  by 
smacking  his  head,  and  his  consolation  from  Aunty 
Rosa  was  that  it  'served  him  right  for  being  vain.' 
He  learned,  however,  to  keep  his  opinions  to  himself, 
and  by  propitiating  Harry  in  carrying  books  and  the 
like  to  get  a  little  peace.  His  existence  was  not  too 
joyful.  From  nine  till  twelve  he  was  at  school,  and 
from  two  to  four,  except  on  Saturdays.  In  the  eve- 
nings he  was  sent  down  into  the  nursery  to  prepare  his 
lessons  for  the  next  day,  and  every  night  came  the 
dreaded  cross-questionings  at  Harry's  hand.  Of  Judy 
he  saw  but  little.  She  was  deeply  religious — at  six 
years  of  age  Religion  is  easy  to  come  by — and  sorely 
divided  between  her  natural  love  for  Black  Sheep  and 
Her  love  for  Aunty  Rosa,  who  could  do  no  wrong. 

The  lean  woman  returned  that  love  wttk  imterest, 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP  atoy 

and  Judy,  when  she  dared,  took  advantage  of  this  for 
the  remission  of  Black  Sheep's  penalties.  Failures  in 
lessons  at  school  were  punished  at  home  by  a  week 
without  reading  other  than  schoolbooks,  and  Harry 
brought  the  news  of  such  a  failure  with  glee.  Further, 
Black  Sheep  was  then  bound  to  repeat  his  lessons  at 
bedtime  to  Harry,  who  generally  succeeded  in  making 
him  break  down,  and  consoled  him  by  gloomiest  fore- 
bodings for  the  morrow.  Harry  was  at  once  spy, 
practical  joker,  inquisitor,  and  Aunty  Rosa's  deputy 
executioner.  He  filled  his  many  posts  to  admiration. 
From  his  actions,  now  that  Uncle  Harry  was  dead, 
there  was  no  appeal.  Black  Sheep  had  not  been  per- 
mitted to  keep  any  self-respect  at  school:  at  home  he 
was  of  course  utterly  discredited,  and  grateful  for  any 
pity  that  the  servant-girls — they  changed  frequently 
at  Downe  Lodge  because  they,  too,  were  liars — might 
show.  'You're  just  fit  to  row  in  the  same  boat  with 
Black  Sheep/  was  a  sentiment  that  each  new  Jane  or 
Eliza  might  expect  to  hear,  before  a  month  was  over, 
from  Aunty  Rosa's  lips;  and  Black  Sheep  was  used  to 
ask  new  girls  whether  they  had  yet  been  compared  to 
him.  Harry  was  'Master  Harry'  in  their  mouths; 
Judy  was  officially  'Miss  Judy';  but  Black  Sheep  was 
never  anything  more  than  Black  Sheep  tout  court. 

As  tune  went  on  and  the  memory  of  Papa  and  Mamma 
became  wholly  overlaid  by  the  unpleasant  task  of  writ- 
ing them  letters,  under  Aunty  Rosa's  eye,  each  Sunday, 
Black  Sheep  forgot  what  manner  of  life  he  had  led 
in  the  beginning  of  things.  Even  Judy's  appeals  to 
'try  and  remember  about  Bombay'  failed  to  quicken 
him. 

'I  can't  remember,'  he  said.  'I  know  I  used  to  give 
orders  and  Mamma  kissed  me.' 


264  UNDER  THE  DEODARS. 

'Aunty  Rosa  will  kiss  you  if  you  are  good/  pleaded 
Judy. 

'Ugh!  I  don't  want  to  be  kissed  by  Aunty  Rosa. 
She'd  say  I  was  doing  it  to  get  something  more  to  eat.' 

The  weeks  lengthened  into  months,  and  the  holidays 
came,  but  just  before  the  holidays  Black  Sheep  fell  into 
deadly  sin. 

Among  the  many  boys  whom  Harry  had  incited  to 
'punch  Black  Sheep's  head  because  he  daren't  hit  back,' 
was  one  more  aggravating  than  the  rest,  who,  in  an  un- 
lucky moment,  fell  upon  Black  Sheep  when  Harry  was 
not  near.  The  blows  stung,  and  Black  Sheep  struck 
back  at  random  with  all  the  power  at  his  command. 
The  boy  dropped  and  whimpered.  Black  Sheep  was 
astounded  at  his  own  act,  but,  feeling  the  unresisting 
body  under  him,  shook  it  with  both  his  hands  in  blind 
fury  and  then  began  to  throttle  his  enemy,  meaning 
honestly  to  slay  him.  There  was  a  scuffle,  and  Black 
Sheep  was  torn  off  the  body  by  Harry  and  some  col- 
leagues, and  cuffed  home  tingling  but  exultant.  Aunty 
Rosa  was  out:  pending  her  arrival,  Harry  set  himself 
to  lecture  Black  Sheep  on  the  sin  of  murder — which  he 
described  as  the  offence  of  Cain. 

'Why  didn't  you  fight  him  fair?  What  did  you  hit 
him  when  he  was  down  for,  you  little  cur?' 

Black  Sheep  looked  up  at  Harry's  throat  and  then  at 
a  knife  on  the  dinner-table. 

'I  don't  understand,'  he  said  wearily.  'You  always 
set  him  on  me  and  told  me  I  was  a  coward  when  I 
blubbed.  Will  you  leave  me  alone  until  Aunty  Rosa 
comes  in?  She'll  beat  me  if  you  tell  her  I  ought  to  be 
beaten;  so  it's  all  right/ 

'It's  all  wrong,'  said  Harry  magisterially.  'You 
nearly  killed  him,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  dies.' 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP  265 

'Will  he  die?'  said  Black  Sheep. 

'I  dare  say/  said  Harry,  'and  then  you'll  be  hanged, 
and  go  to  Hell.' 

'All  right,'  said  Black  Sheep,  picking  up  the  table- 
knife.  'Then  I'll  kill  you  now.  You  say  things  and 
do  things  and — and  /  don't  know  how  things  happen, 
and  you  never  leave  me  alone — and  I  don't  care  what 
happens ! ' 

He  ran  at  the  boy  with  the  knife,  and  Harry  fled 
upstairs  to  his  room,  promising  Black  Sheep  the  finest 
thrashing  in  the  world  when  Aunty  Rosa  returned. 
Black  Sheep  sat  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  the  table- 
knife  in  his  hand,  and  wept  for  that  he  had  not  killed 
Harry.  The  servant-girl  came  up  from  the  kitchen, 
took  the  knife  away,  and  consoled  him.  But  Black 
Sheep  was  beyond  consolation.  He  would  be  badly 
beaten  by  Aunty  Rosa;  then  there  would  be  another 
beating  at  Harry's  hands;  then  Judy  would  not  be 
allowed  to  speak  to  him;  then  the  tale  would  be  told  at 
school  and  then — 

There  was  no  one  to  help  and  no  one  to  care,  and 
the  best  way  out  of  the  business  was  by  death.  A 
knife  would  hurt,  but  Aunty  Rosa  had  told  him,  a  year 
ago,  that  if  he  sucked  paint  he  would  die.  He  went 
into  the  nursery,  unearthed  the  now  disused  Noah's 
Ark,  and  sucked  the  paint  off  as  many  animals  as  re- 
mained. It  tasted  abominable,  but  he  had  licked 
Noah's  Dove  clean  by  the  time  Aunty  Rosa  and  Judy 
returned.  He  went  upstairs  and  greeted  them  with: 
'Please,  Aunty  Rosa,. I  believe  I've  nearly  killed  a  boy 
at  school,  and  I've  tried  to  kill  Harry,  and  when  you've 
done  all  about  God  and  Hell,  will  you  beat  me  and  get 
it  over?' 

The  tale  of  the  assault  as  told  by  Harry  could  only  be 


466  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

explained  on  the  ground  of  possession  by  the  Devil. 
Wherefore  Black  Sheep  was  not  only  most  excellently 
beaten,  once  by  Aunty  Rosa  and  once,  when  thoroughly 
cowed  down,  by  Harry,  but  he  was  further  prayed  for 
at  family  prayers,  together  with  Jane  who  had  stolen  a 
cold  rissole  from  the  pantry  and  snuffled  audibly  as 
her  sin  was  brought  before  the  Throne  of  Grace.  Black 
Sheep  was  sore  and  stiff  but  triumphant.  He  would 
die  that  very  night  and  be  rid  of  them  all.  No,  he 
would  ask  for  no  forgiveness  from  Harry,  and  at  bed- 
time would  stand  no  questioning  at  Harry's  hands, 
even  though  addressed  as  'Young  Cain.' 

'I've  been  beaten,'  said  he,  'and  I've  done  other 
things.  I  don't  care  what  I  do.  If  you  speak  to  me 
to-night,  Harry,  I'll  get  out  and  try  to  kill  you.  Now 
you  can  kill  me  if  you  like.' 

Harry  took  his  bed  into  the  spare  room,  and  Black 
Sheep  lay  down  to  die. 

It  may  be  that  the  makers  of  Noah's  Arks  know  that 
their  animals  are  likely  to  find  their  way  into  young 
mouths,  and  paint  them  accordingly.  Certain  it  is 
that  the  common,  weary  next  morning  broke  through 
the  windows  and  found  Black  Sheep  quite  well  and  a 
good  deal  ashamed  of  himself,  but  richer  by  the  knowl- 
edge that  he  could,  in  extremity,  secure  himself  against 
Harry  for  the  future. 

When  he  descended  to  breakfast  on  the  first  day  of 
the  holidays,  he  was  greeted  with  the  news  that  Harry, 
Aunty  Rosa,  and  Judy  were  going  away  to  Brighton, 
while  Black  Sheep  was  to  stay  in  the  house  with  the 
servant.  His  latest  outbreak  suited  Aunty  Rosa's 
plans  admirably.  It  gave  her  good  excuse  for  leaving 
the  extra  boy  behind.  Papa  in  Bombay,  who  really 
seemed  to  know  a  young  sinner's  wants  to  the  hour, 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP  267 

sent,  that  week,  a  package  of  new  books.  And  with 
these,  and  the  society  of  Jane  on  board-wages,  Black 
Sheep  was  left  alone  for  a  month. 

The  books  lasted  for  ten  days.  They  were  eaten  too 
quickly  in  long  gulps  of  twelve  hours  at  a  time.  Then 
came  days  of  doing  absolutely  nothing,  of  dreaming 
dreams  and  marching  imaginary  armies  up  and  down 
stairs,  of  counting  the  number  of  banisters,  and  of 
measuring  the  length  and  breadth  of  every  room  in 
handspans — fifty  down  the  side,  thirty  across,  and 
fifty  back  again.  Jane  made  many  friends,  and,  after 
receiving  Black  Sheep's  assurance  that  he  would  not 
tell  of  her  absences,  went  out  daily  for  long  hours. 
Black  Sheep  would  follow  the  rays  of  the  sinking  sun 
from  the  kitchen  to  the  dining-room  and  thence  upward 
to  his  own  bedroom  until  all  was  gray  dark,  and  he  ran 
down  to  the  kitchen  fire  and  read  by  its  light.  He  was 
happy  in  that  he  was  left  alone  and  could  read  as  much 
as  he  pleased.  But,  later,  he  grew  afraid  of  the  shadows 
of  window-curtains  and  the  flapping  of  doors  and  the 
creaking  of  shutters.  He  went  out  into  the  garden, 
and  the  rustling  of  the  laurel-bushes  frightened  him. 

He  was  glad  when  they  all  returned — Aunty  Rosa, 
Harry,  and  Judy — full  of  news,  and  Judy  laden  with 
gifts.  Who  could  help  loving  loyal  little  Judy?  In 
return  for  all  her  merry  babblement,  Black  Sheep  con- 
fided to  her  that  the  distance  from  the  hall-door  to  the 
top  of  the  first  landing  was  exactly  one  hundred  and 
eighty-four  handspans.  He  had  found  it  out  himself. 

Then  the  old  life  recommenced;  but  with  a  differ- 
ence, and  a  new  sin.  To  his  other  iniquities  Black 
Sheep  had  now  added  a  phenomenal  clumsiness — was 
as  unfit  to  trust  in  action  as  he  was  in  word.  He  himself 
could  not  account  for  spilling  everything  he  touched* 


268  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

upsetting  glasses  as  he  put  his  hand  out,  and  bumping 
his  head  against  doors  that  were  manifestly  shut.  There 
was  a  gray  haze  upon  all  his  world,  and  it  narrowed 
month  by  month,  until  at  last  it  left  Black  Sheep  almost 
alone  with  the  flapping  curtains  that  were  so  like  ghosts, 
and  the  nameless  terrors  of  broad  daylight  that  were 
only  coats  on  pegs  after  all. 

Holidays  came  and  holidays  went  and  Black  Sheep 
was  taken  to  see  many  people  whose  faces  were  all 
exactly  alike;  was  beaten  when  occasion  demanded, 
and  tortured  by  Harry  on  all  possible  occasions;  but 
defended  by  Judy  through  good  and  evil  report,  though 
she  hereby  drew  upon  herself  the  wrath  of  Aunty  Rosa. 

The  weeks  were  interminable,  and  Papa  and  Mamma 
were  clean  forgotten.  Harry  had  left  school  and  was 
a  clerk  in  a  Banking-Office.  Freed  from  his  presence, 
Black  Sheep  resolved  that  he  should  no  longer  be  de- 
prived of  his  allowance  of  pleasure-reading.  Conse- 
quently when  he  failed  at  school  he  reported  that  all 
was  well,  and  conceived  a  large  contempt  for  Aunty 
Rosa  as  he  saw  how  easy  it  was  to  deceive  her.  'She 
says  I'm  a  little  liar  when  I  don't  tell  lies,  and  now  I 
do,  she  doesn't  know/  thought  Black  Sheep.  Aunty 
Rosa  had  credited  him  in  the  past  with  petty  cun- 
ning and  stratagem  that  had  never  entered  into  his 
head.  By  the  light  of  the  sordid  knowledge  that  she 
had  revealed  to  him  he  paid  her  back  full  tale.  In 
a  household  where  the  most  innocent  of  his  motives, 
his  natural  yearning  for  a  little  affection,  had  been 
interpreted  into  a  desire  for  more  bread  and  jam  or 
to  ingratiate  himself  with  strangers  and  so  put  Harry 
into  the  background,  his  work  was  easy.  Aunty  Rosa 
could  penetrate  certain  kinds  of  hypocrisy,  but  not  all. 
He  set  his  child's  wits  against  hers  and  was  no  more 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP  269 

beaten.  It  grew  monthly  more  and  more  of  a  trouble 
to  read  the  schoolbooks,  and  even  the  pages  of  the 
open-print  story-books  danced  and  were  dim.  So  Black 
Sheep  brooded  in  the  shadows  that  fell  about  him  and 
cut  him  off  from  the  world,  inventing  horrible  punish- 
ments for  'dear  Harry,'  or  plotting  another  line  of  the 
tangled  web  of  deception  that  he  wrapped  round  Aunty 
Rosa. 

Then  the  crash  came  and  the  cobwebs  were  broken. 
It  was  impossible  to  foresee  everything.  Aunty  Rosa 
made  personal  enquiries  as  to  Black  Sheep's  progress  and 
received  information  that  startled  her.  Step  by  step, 
with  a  delight  as  keen  as  when  she  convicted  an  underfed 
housemaid  of  the  theft  of  cold  meats,  she  followed  the 
trail  of  Black  Sheep's  delinquencies.  For  weeks  and 
weeks,  hi  order  to  escape  banishment  from  the  book- 
shelves, he  had  made  a  fool  of  Aunty  Rosa,  of  Harry,  of 
God,  of  all  the  world!  Horrible,  most  horrible,  and  evi- 
dence of  an  utterly  depraved  mind. 

Black  Sheep  counted  the  cost.  'It  will  only  be  one 
big  beating  and  then  she'll  put  a  card  with  "Liar"  on  my 
back,  same  as  she  did  before.  Harry  will  whack  me  and 
pray  for  me,  and  she  will  pray  for  me  at  prayers  and  tell 
me  I'm  a  Child  of  the  Devil  and  give  me  hymns  to  learn. 
But  I've  done  all  my  reading  and  she  never  knew.  She'll 
say  she  knew  all  along.  She's  an  old  liar  too/  said 
he. 

For  three  days  Black  Sheep  was  shut  in  his  own  bed- 
room— to  prepare  his  heart.  'That  means  two  beatings. 
One  at  school  and  one  here.  That  one  will  hurt  most.' 
And  it  fell  even  as  he  thought.  He  was  thrashed  at 
school  before  the  Jews  and  the  hubshi,  for  the  heinous 
crime  of  bringing  home  false  reports  of  progress.  He 
was  thrashed  at  home  by  Aunty  Rosa  on  the  same  count, 


270  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

and  then  the  placard  was  produced.  Aunty  Rosa  stitched 
it  between  his  shoulders  and  bade  him  go  for  a  walk  with 
it  upon  him. 

'If  you  make  me  do  that/  said  Black  Sheep  very 
quietly, '  I  shall  burn  this  house  down,  and  perhaps  I'll  kill 
you.  I  don't  know  whether  I  can  kill  you — you're  so 
bony— but  I'll  try.' 

No  punishment  followed  this  blasphemy,  though  Black 
Sheep  held  himself  ready  to  work  his  way  to  Aunty  Rosa's 
withered  throat,  and  grip  there  till  he  was  beaten  off. 
Perhaps  Aunty  Rosa  was  afraid,  for  Black  Sheep,  having 
reached  the  Nadir  of  Sin,  bore  himself  with  a  new  reckless- 
ness. 

In  the  midst  of  all  the  trouble  there  came  a  visitor  from 
over  the  seas  to  Downe  Lodge,  who  knew  Papa  and 
Mamma,  and  was  commissioned  to  see  Punch  and  Judy. 
Black  Sheep  was  sent  to  the  drawing-room  and  charged 
into  a  solid  tea-table  laden  with  china. 

'Gently,  gently,  little  man/  said  the  visitor,  turning 
Black  Sheep's  face  to  the  light  slowly.  'What's  that  big 
bird  on  the  palings? ' 

'  What  bird? '  asked  Black  Sheep. 

The  visitor  looked  deep  down  into  Black  Sheep's  eyes 
for  half  a  minute,  and  then  said  suddenly:  '  Good  God,  the 
little  chap's  nearly  blind ! ' 

It  was  a  most  business-like  visitor.  He  gave  orders,  on 
his  own  responsibility,  that  Black  Sheep  was  not  to  go  to 
school  or  open  a  book  until  Mamma  came  home.  '  She'll 
be  here  in  three  weeks,  as  you  know  of  course/  said  he, 
'  and  I'm  Inverarity  Sahib.  I  ushered  you  into  this  wicked 
world,  young  man,  and  a  nice  use  you  seem  to  have  made 
of  your  time.  You  must  do  nothing  whatever.  Can  you 
do  that?' 

'  Yes, '  said  Punch  in  a  dazed  way.     He  had  known  that 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP  171 

Mamma  was  coming.  There  was  a  chance,  then,  of  an- 
other beating.  Thank  Heaven,  Papa  wasn't  coming  too. 
Aunty  Rosa  had  said  of  late  that  he  ought  to  be  beaten  by 
a  man. 

For  the  next  three  weeks  Black  Sheep  was  strictly 
allowed  to  do  nothing.  He  spent  his  time  in  the  old 
nursery  looking  at  the  broken  toys,  for  all  of  which  account 
must  be  rendered  to  Mamma.  Aunty  Rosa  hit  him  over 
the  hands  if  even  a  wooden  boat  were  broken.  But  that 
sin  was  of  small  importance  compared  to  the  other  reve- 
lations, so  darkly  hinted  at  by  Aunty  Rosa. 

'When  your  Mother  comes,  and  hears  what  I  have  to 
tell  her,  she  may  appreciate  you  properly/  she  said  grimly, 
a.K.d  mounted  guard  over  Judy  lest  that  small  maiden 
should  attempt  to  comfort  her  brother,  to  the  peril  of  her 
soul. 

And  Mamma  came — in  a  four-wheeler — fluttered  with 
tender  excitement.  Such  a  Mamma!  She  was  young, 
frivolously  young,  and  beautiful,  with  delicately  flushed 
cheeks,  eyes  that  shone  like  stars,  and  a  voice  that  needed 
no  appeal  of  outstretched  arms  to  draw  little  ones  to  her 
heart.  Judy  ran  straight  to  her,  but  Black  Sheep  hesi- 
tated. Could  this  wonder  be  'showing  off'?  She  would 
not  put  out  her  arms  when  she  knew  of  his  crimes.  Mean- 
time was  it  possible  that  by  fondling  she  wanted  to  get 
anything  out  of  Black  Sheep?  Only  all  his  love  and  all  his 
confidence;  but  that  Black  Sheep  did  not.  know.  Aunty 
Rosa  withdrew  and  left  Mamma,  kneeling  between  her 
children,  half  laughing,  half  crying,  in  the  very  hall 
where  Punch  and  Judy  had  wept  five  years  before. 

'Well,  chicks,  do  you  remember  me? ' 

'No,'  said  Judy  frankly,  'but  I  said,  "God  bless  Papa 
and  Mamma,"  ev'vy  night.' 

'A  little,'  said  Black  Sheep.   ' Remember  I  wrote  to  you 


372  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

every  week,  anyhow.    That  isn't  to  show  off,  but  'cause 
of  what  comes  afterwards.' 

'What  comes  after?  What  should  come  after,  my 
darling  boy? '  And  she  drew  him  to  her  again.  He  came 
awkwardly,  with  many  angles.  'Not  used  to  petting/ 
said  the  quick  Mother-soul.  ' The  girl  is.' 

'She's  too  little  to  hurt  any  one,'  thought  Black  Sheep, 
'  and  if  I  said  I'd  kill  her,  she'd  be  afraid.  I  wonder  what 
Aunty  Rosa  will  tell.' 

There  was  a  constrained  late  dinner,  at  the  end  of  which 
Mamma  picked  up  Judy  and  put  her  to  bed  with  endear- 
ments manifold.  Faithless  little  Judy  had  shown  her  de- 
fection from  Aunty  Rosa  already.  And  that  lady  resented 
it  bitterly.  Black  Sheep  rose  to  leave  the  room. 

'Come  and  say  good-night,'  said  Aunty  Rosa,  offering 
a  withered  cheek. 

'Huh!'  said  Black  Sheep.  'I  never  kiss  you,  and  I'm 
not  going  to  show  off.  Tell  that  woman  what  I've  done, 
and  see  what  she  says.' 

Black  Sheep  climbed  into  bed  feeling  that  he  had  lost 
Heaven  after  a  glimpse  through  the  gates.  In  half  an 
hour  'that  woman'  was  bending  over  him.  Black  Sheep 
flung  up  his  right  arm.  It  wasn't  fair  to  come  and  hit 
him  in  the  dark.  Even  Aunty  Rosa  never  tried  that.  But 
no  blow  followed. 

'Are  you  showing  off?  I  won't  tell  you  anything  more 
than  Aunty  Rosa  has,  and  she  doesn't  know  everything/ 
said  Black  Sheep  as  clearly  as  he  could  for  the  arms  round 
his  neck. 

'  Oh,  my  son — my  little,  little  son !  It  was  my  fault — 
my  fault,  darling — and  yet  how  could  we  help  it?  For- 
give me,  Punch.'  The  voice  died  out  in  a  broken  whisper, 
and  two  hot  tears  fell  on  Black  Sheep's  forehead. 

'Has  she  been  making  you  cry  too?'  he  asked. _  'You 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP  273 

should  see  Jane  cry.  But  you're  nice,  and  Jane  is  a  Born 
Liar — Aunty  Rosa  says  so.' 

'Hush, Punch, hush!  Myboy,don'ttalklikethat.  Try 
to  love  me  a  little  bit — a  little  bit.  You  don't  know  how 
I  want  it.  Punch-baba,  come  back  to  me!  I  am  your 
Mother — your  own  Mother — and  never  mind  the  rest.  I 
know — yes,  I  know,  dear.  Itdoesn'tmatternow.  Punch, 
won't  you  care  for  me  a  little? ' 

It  is  astonishing  how  much  petting  a  big  boy  of  ten  can 
endure  when  he  is  quite  sure  that  there  is  no  one  to  laugh 
at  him.  Black  Sheep  had  never  been  made  much  of  be- 
fore, and  here  was  this  beautiful  woman  treating  him — 
Black  Sheep,  the  Child  of  the  Devil  and  the  inheritor  of 
undying  flame — as  though  he  were  a  small  God. 

'I  care  for  you  a  great  deal,  Mother  dear/  he  whispered 
at  last,  'and  I'm  glad  you've  come  back;  but  are  you  sure 
Aunty  Rosa  told  you  everything? ' 

'  Everything.  What  does  it  matter?  But' — the  voice 
broke  with  a  sob  that  was  also  laughter — 'Punch,  my 
poor,  dear,  half-blind  darling,  don't  you  think  it  was  a 
little  foolish  of  you? ' 

'No.      It  saved  a  lickin'.' 

Mamma  shuddered  and  slipped  away  in  the  darkness  to 
write  a  long  letter  to  Papa.  Here  is  an  extract : — 

.  .  .  Judy  is  a  dear,  plump  little  prig  who  adores  the  woman, 
and  wears  with  as  much  gravity  as  her  religious  opinions — only  eight, 
Jack! — a  venerable  horsehair  atrocity  which  she  calls  her  Bustle!  I 
have  just  burnt  it,  and  the  child  is  asleep  in  my  bed  as  I  write.  She 
will  come  to  me  at  once.  Punch  I  cannot  quite  understand.  He  is 
well  nourished,  but  seems  to  have  been  worried  into  a  system  of  small 
deceptions  which  the  woman  magnifies  into  deadly  sins.  Don't  you 
recollect  our  own  upbringing,  dear,  when  the  Fear  of  the  Lord  was  so 
often  the  beginning  of  falsehood?  I  shall  win  Punch  to  me  before  long. 
I  am  taking  the  children  away  into  the  country  to  get  them  to  know  me, 
and,  on  the  whole,  I  am  content,  or  shall  be  when  you  come  home,  dear 
boy,  and  then,  thank  God,  we  shall  be  all  under  one  roof  again  at  last! 


274  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Three  months  later,  Punch,  no  longer  Black  Sheep,  has 
discovered  that  he  is  the  veritable  owner  of  a  real,  live, 
lovely  Mamma,  who  is  also  a  sister,  comforter,  and  friend, 
and  that  he  must  protect  her  till  the  Father  comes  home. 
Deception  does  not  suit  the  part  of  a  protector,  and,  when 
one  can  do  anything  without  question,  where  is  the  use  of 
deception? 

'Mother  would  be  awfully  cross  if  you  walked  through 
that  ditch,'  says  Judy,  continuing  a  conversation. 

'Mother's  never  angry/  says  Punch.  'She'd  just  say, 
"You're  a  little  pagal;"  and  that's  not  nice,  but  I'll 
show.' 

Punch  walks  through  the  ditch  and  mires  himself  to  the 
knees.  'Mother,  dear,'  he  shouts,  'I'm  just  as  dirty  as  I 
can  pos-sib-ly  be ! ' 

'Then  change  your  clothes  as  quickly  as  you  pos-sib-ly 
can!'  Mother's  clear  voice  rings  out  from  the  house. 
<  And  don't  be  a  little  pagal  I ' 

'  There !  'Told  you  so,'  says  Punch.  '  It's  all  different 
now,  and  we  are  just  as  much  Mother's  as  if  she  had  never 
gone.' 

Not  altogether,  O  Punch,  for  when  young  lips  have 
drunk  deep  of  the  bitter  waters  of  Hate,  Suspicion,  and 
Despair,  all  the  Love  in  the  world  will  not  wholly  take 
away  that  knowledge;  though  it  may  turn  darkened  eyes 
for  a  while  to  the  light,  and  teach  Faith  where  no  Faith 
was. 


HIS  MAJESTY  THE  KING 

Where  the  word  of  a  King  is,  there  is  power:  And  who  may  say 
unto  him — What  doest  thou? 

*YETH!  And  Chimo  to  sleep  at  ve  foot  of  ve  bed,  and 
ve  pink  pikky-book,  and  ve  bwead — 'cause  I  will  be 
hungwy  in  ve  night — and  vat's  all,  Miss  Biddums.  And 
now  give  me  one  kiss  and  I'll  go  to  sleep. — So!  Kite 
quiet.  Ow!  Ve  pink  pikky-book  has  slidded  under  ve 
pillow  and  ve  bwead  is  cwumbling!  Miss  Biddums!  Miss 
Bid-dums !  I'm  so  uncomfy !  Come  and  tuck  me  up,  Miss 
Biddums.' 

His  Majesty  the  King  was  going  to  bed;  and  poo*, 
patient  Miss  Biddums,  who  had  advertised  herself  humbly 
as  a  '  young  person,  European,  accustomed  to  the  care  of 
little  children,'  was  forced  to  wait  upon  his  royal  caprices. 
The  going  to  bed  was  always  a  lengthy  process,  because 
His  Majesty  had  a  convenient  knack  of  forgetting  which 
of  his  many  friends,  from  the  mehter's  son  to  the  Com- 
missioner's daughter,  he  had  prayed  for,  and,  lest  the 
Deity  should  take  offence,  was  used  to  toil  through  his 
little  prayers,  in  all  reverence,  five  times  hi  one  evening. 
His  Majesty  the  King  believed  in  the  efficacy  of  prayer  as 
devoutly  as  he  believed  hi  Chimo,  the  patient  spaniel,  or 
Miss  Biddums,  who  could  reach  him  down  his  gun — '  with 
cursuffun  caps — red  ones' — from  the  upper  shelves  of 
the  big  nursery  cupboard. 

At  the  door  of  the  nursery  his  authority  stopped.  Be- 
yond lay  the  empire  of  his  father  and  mother — two  very 

275 


276  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

terrible  people  who  had  no  time  to  waste  upon  His 
Majesty  the  King.  His  voice  was  lowered  when  he  passed 
the  frontier  of  his  own  dominions,  his  actions  were  fettered, 
and  his  soul  was  filled  with  awe  because  of  the  grim 
man  who  lived  among  a  wilderness  of  pigeon-holes  and  the 
most  fascinating  pieces  of  red  tape,  and  the  wonderful 
woman  who  was  always  getting  into  or  stepping  out  of  the 
big  carriage. 

To  the  one  belonged  the  mysteries  of  the  'duftar- 
room,'  to  the  other  the  great,  reflected  wilderness  of 
the  'Memsahib's  room'  where  the  shiny,  scented  dresses 
hung  on  pegs,  miles  and  miles  up  in  the  air,  and  the 
just-seen  plateau  of  the  toilet-table  revealed  an  acreage 
of  speckly  combs,  broidered '  hanafitch-bags,'  and  'white- 
headed'  brushes. 

There  was  no  room  for  His  Majesty  the  King  either 
in  official  reserve  or  worldly  gorgeousness.  He  had 
discovered  that,  ages  and  ages  ago — before  even  Chimo 
came  to  the  house,  or  Miss  Biddums  had  ceased  griz- 
zling over  a  packet  of  greasy  letters  which  appeared  to 
be  her  chief  treasure  on  earth.  His  Majesty  the  King, 
therefore,  wisely  confined  himself  to  his  own  territories, 
where  only  Miss  Biddums,  and  she  feebly,  disputed  his 
sway. 

From  Miss  Biddums  he  had  picked  up  his  simple 
theology  and  welded  it  to  the  legends  of  gods  and  devils 
that  he  had  learned  in  the  servants'  quarters. 

To  Miss  Biddums  he  confided  with  equal  trust  his 
tattered  garments  and  his  more  serious  griefs.  She 
would  make  everything  whole.  She  knew  exactly  how 
the  Earth  had  been  born,  and  had  reassured  the  trem- 
bling soul  of  His  Majesty  the  King  that  terrible  time 
in  July  when  it  rained  continuously  for  seven  days  and 
seven  nights,  and — there  was  no  Ark  ready  and  all 


HIS  MAJESTY  THE  KING  277 

the  ravens  had  flown  away!  She  was  the  most  powerful 
person  with  whom  he  was  brought  into  contact — always 
excepting  the  two  remote  and  silent  people  beyond  the 
nursery  door. 

How  was  His  Majesty  the  King  to  know  that,  six 
years  ago,  in  the  summer  of  his  birth,  Mrs.  Austell, 
turning  over  her  husband's  papers,  had  come  upon  the 
intemperate  letter  of  a  foolish  woman  who  had  been 
carried  away  by  the  silent  man's  strength  and  personal 
beauty?  How  could  he  tell  what  evil  the  overlooked 
slip  of  notepaper  had  wrought  in  the  mind  of  a  desper- 
ately jealous  wife?  How  could  he,  despite  his  wis- 
dom, guess  that  his  mother  had  chosen  to  make  of  it 
excuse  for  a  bar  and  a  division  between  herself  and  her 
husband,  that  strengthened  and  grew  harder  to  break 
with  each  year;  that  she,  having  unearthed  this  skele- 
ton in  the  cupboard,  had  trained  it  into  a  household 
God  which  should  be  about  their  path  and  about  their 
bed,  and  poison  all  their  ways? 

These  things  were  beyond  the  province  of  His  Maj- 
esty the  King.  He  only  knew  that  his  father  was  daily 
absorbed  in  some  mysterious  work  for  a  thing  called  the 
Sirkar  and  that  his  mother  was  the  victim  alternately 
of  the  Nautch  and  the  Burrakhana.  To  these  enter- 
tainments she  was  escorted  by  a  Captain-Man  for  whom 
His  Majesty  the  King  had  no  regard. 

'He  doesn't  laugh,'  he  argued  with  Miss  Biddums, 
who  would  fain  have  taught  him  charity.  He  only 
makes  faces  wiv  his  mouf ,  and  when  he  wants  to  o-muse 
me  I  am  not  o-mused.'  And  His  Majesty  the  King 
shook  his  head  as  one  who  knew  the  deceitfulness  of  this 
world. 

Morning  and  evening  it  was  his  duty  to  salute  his 
father  and  mother — the  former  with  a  grave  shake  o/ 


2?8  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

the  hand,  and  the  latter  with  an  equally  grave  kiss. 
Once,  indeed,  he  had  put  his  arms  round  his  mother's 
neck,  in  the  fashion  he  used  towards  Miss  Biddums. 
The  openwork  of  his  sleeve-edge  caught  in  an  earring, 
and  the  last  stage  of  His  Majesty's  little  overture  was 
a  suppressed  scream  and  summary  dismissal  to  the 
nursery. 

'It  is  w'ong,'  thought  His  Majesty  the  King,  'to 
hug  Ivtemsahibs  wiv  fings  in  veir  ears.  I  will  amem- 
ber.'  He  never  repeated  the  experiment. 

Miss  Biddums,  it  must  be  confessed,  spoilt  him  as 
much  as  his  nature  admitted,  in  some  sort  of  recom- 
pense, for  what  she  called  '  the  hard  ways  of  his  Papa 
and  Mamma.'  She,  like  her  charge,  knew  nothing  of 
the  trouble  between  man  and  wife — the  savage  con- 
tempt for  a  woman's  stupidity  on  the  one  side,  or  the 
dull,  rankling  anger  on  the  other.  Miss  Biddums  had 
looked  after  many  little  children  in  her  time,  and  served 
in  many  establishments.  Being  a  discreet  woman,  she 
observed  little  and  said  less,  and,  when  her  pupils  went 
over  the  sea  to  the  Great  Unknown,  which  she,  with 
touching  confidence  in  her  hearers,  called  'Home,' 
packed  up  her  slender  belongings  and  sought  for  em- 
ployment afresh,  lavishing  all  her  love  on  each  successive 
batch  of  ingrates.  Only  His  Majesty  the  King  had  re- 
paid her  affection  with  interest;  and  in  his  uncompre- 
hending ears  she  had  told  the  tale  of  nearly  all  her  hopes, 
her  aspirations,  the  hopes  that  were  dead,  and  the  daz- 
zling glories  of  her  ancestral  home  in  'Calcutta,,  close  to 
Wellington  Square.' 

Everything  above  the  average  was  in  the  eyes  of  His 
Majesty  the  King  'Calcutta  good.'  When  Miss  Bid- 
dums had  crossed  his  royal  will,  he  reversed  the  epithet 
to  vex  that  estimable  lady,  and  all  things  evil  were, 


MAJESTY  THE  KING  279 

until  the  tears  of  repentance  swept  away  spite,  'Cal- 
cutta bad.' 

Now  and  again  Miss  Biddums  begged  for  him  the 
rare  pleasure  of  a  day  in  the  society  of  the  Commis- 
sioner's child— the  wilful  four-year-old  Patsie,  who, 
to  the  intense  amazement  of  His  Majesty  the  King, 
was  idolised  by  her  parents.  On  thinking  the  question 
out  at  length,  by  roads  unknown  to  those  who  have 
left  childhood  behind,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
Patsie  was  petted  because  she  wore  a  big  blue  sash  and 
yellow  hair. 

This  precious  discovery  he  kept  to  himself.  Th*i 
yellow  hair  was  absolutely  beyond  his  power,  his  own 
tousled  wig  being  potato-brown;  but  something  might 
be  done  towards  the  blue  sash.  He  tied  a  large  knot 
in  his  mosquito-curtains  in  order  to  remember  to  con- 
sult Patsie  on  their  next  meeting.  She  was  the  only 
child  he  had  ever  spoken  to,  and  almost  the  only  one 
that  he  had  ever  seen.  The  little  memory  and  the 
very  large  and  ragged  knot  held  good. 

'Patsie,  lend  me  your  blue  wiban,'  said  His  Majesty 
the  King. 

'You'll  bewy  it,'  said  Patsie  doubtfully,  mindful  of 
certain  atrocities  committed  on  her  doll. 

'No,  I  won't — twoofanhonour.     It's  for  me  to  wear.' 

'Pooh!'  said  Patsie.  'Boys  don't  wear  sa-ashes. 
Zey's  only  for  dirls.' 

'I  didn't  know.'  The  face  of  His  Majesty  the  King 
fell. 

'Who  wants  ribands?  Are  you  playing  horses,  chick- 
abiddies?' said  the  Commissioner's  wife,  stepping  into 
the  veranda. 

'Toby  wanted  my  sash,'  explained  Patsie. 

'I  don't  now,'  said  His  Majesty  the  King  hastily, 


j8o  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

feeling  that  with  one  of  these  terrible  'grown  ups'  his 
poor  little  secret  would  be  shamelessly  wrenched  from 
him,  and  perhaps — most  burning  desecration  of  all- 
laughed  at. 

'I'll  give  you  a  cracker-cap,'  said  the  Commissioner's 
wife.  '  Come  along  with  me,  Toby,  and  we'll  choose  it.' 

The  cracker-cap  was  a  stiff,  three-pointed  vermilion- 
and-tinsel  splendour.  His  Majesty  the  King  fitted  it 
on  his  royal  brow.  The  Commissioner's  wife  had  a 
face  that  children  instinctively  trusted,  and  her  action, 
as  she  adjusted  the  toppling  middle  spike,  was  tender. 

'Will  it  do  as  well?'  stammered  His  Majesty  the 
King. 

'As  what,  little  one?' 

'As  ve  wiban?' 

'Oh,  quite.     Go  and  look  at  yourself  in  the  glass.' 

The  words  were  spoken  in  all  sincerity  and  to  help 
forward  any  absurd  '  dressing-up'  amusement  that  the 
children  might  take  into  their  minds.  But  the  young 
savage  has  a  keen  sense  of  the  ludicrous.  His  Majesty 
the  King  swung  the  great  cheval-glass  down,  and  saw 
his  head  crowned  with  the  staring  horror  of  a  fool's 
cap — a  thing  which  his  father  would  rend  to  pieces  if 
it  ever  came  into  his  office.  He  plucked  it  off,  and 
burst  into  tears. 

'Toby,'  said  the  Commissioner's  wife  gravely,  'you 
shouldn't  give  way  to  temper.  I  am  very  sorry  to  see 
it.  It's  wrong.' 

His  Majesty  the  King  sobbed  inconsolably,  and  the 
heart  of  Patsie's  mother  was  touched.  She  drew  the 
child  on  to  her  knee.  Clearly  it  was  not  temper  alone. 

'What  is  it,  Toby?  Won't  you  tell  me?  Aren't  you 
well?' 

The  torrent  of  sobs  and  speech  met,  and  fought  for  a 


HIS  MAJESTY  THE  KING  281 

time,  with  chokings  and  gulpings  and  gasps.  Then,  in 
a  sudden  rush,  His  Majesty  the  King  was  delivered  of 
a  few  inarticulate  sounds,  followed  by  the  words — 'Go 
a — way  you — dirty — little  debbil!' 

'Toby!    What  do  you  mean? ' 

'It's  what  he'd  say.  Iknowitisl  He  said  vat  when 
vere  was  only  a  little,  little  eggy  mess,  on  my  t-t-unic; 
and  he'd  say  it  again,  and  laugh,  if  I  went  in  wif  vat 
on  my  head.' 

'Who  would  say  that?' 

'M-m-my  Papa!  And  I  fought  if  I  had  ve  blue 
wiban,  he'd  let  me  play  in  ve  waste-paper  basket  under 
ve  table.' 

'  What  blue  riband,  childie? ' 

'  Ve  same  vat  Patsie  had — ve  big  blue  wiban  w-w-wound 
my  t-ttummy!' 

'What  is  it,  Toby?  There's  something  on  your 
mind.  Tell  me  all  about  it,  and  perhaps  I  can  help.' 

'Isn't  anyfmg,'  sniffed  His  Majesty,  mindful  of  his 
manhood,  and  raising  his  head  from  the  motherly  bosom 
upon  which  it  was  resting.  'I  only  fought  vat  you — 
you  petted  Patsie  'cause  she  had  ve  blue  wiban,  and — 
and  if  I'd  had  ve  blue  wiban  too,  m-my  Papa  w-would 
pet  me.' 

The  secret  was  out,  and  His  Majesty  the  King  sobbed 
bitterly  in  spite  of  the  arms  around  him,  and  the  murmur 
of  comfort  on  his  heated  little  forehead. 

Enter  Patsie  tumultuously,  embarrassed  by  several 
lengths  of  the  Commissioner's  pet  maliseer-rod.  'Turn 
along,  Toby!  Zere's  a  chu-chu  lizard  in  ze  chick,  and 
I've  told  Chimo  to  watch  him  till  we  turn.  If  we  poke 
him  wiz  zis  his  tail  will  go  wiggle-wiggle  and  fall  off. 
Turn  along!  I  can't  weach.' 

'I'm  comin','  said  His  Majesty  the  King,  climbingj 


a8z  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

down  from  the  Commissioner's  wife's  knee  after  a  hasty 
kiss. 

Two  minutes  later,  the  chu-chu  lizard's  tail  was  wrig- 
gling on  the  matting  of  the  veranda,  and  the  children 
were  gravely  poking  it  with  splinters  from  the  chick,  to 
urge  its  exhausted  vitality  into  'just  one  wiggle  more, 
'cause  it  doesn't  hurt  chu-chu.'' 

The  Commissioner's  wife  stood  in  the  doorway  and 

watched — 'Poor  little  mite!  A  blue  sash and  my 

own  precious  Patsie!  I  wonder  if  the  best  of  us,  or  we 
who  love  them  best,  ever  understood  what  goes  on  in 
their  topsy-turvy  little  heads.' 

She  went  indoors  to  devise  a  tea  for  His  Majesty  the 
King. 

"Their  souls  aren't  in  their  tummies  at  that  age  in 
this  climate,'  said  the  Commissioner's  wife,  'but  they 
are  not  far  off.  I  wonder  if  I  could  make  Mrs.  Austell 
understand.  Poor  little  fellow!' 

With  simple  craft,  the  Commissioner's  wife  called 
on  Mrs.  Austell  and  spoke  long  and  lovingly  about  chil- 
dren; inquiring  specially  for  His  Majesty  the  King. 

'He's  with  his  governess,'  said  Mrs.  Austell,  and  the 
tone  showed  that  she  was  not  interested. 

The  Commissioner's  wife,  unskilled  in  the  art  oi 
war,  continued  her  questionings.  'I  don't  know,'  said 
Mrs.  Austell.  'These  things  are  left  to  Miss  Biddums, 
and,  of  course,  she  does  not  ill-treat  the  child.' 

The  Commissioner's  wife  left  hastily.  The  last  sen- 
tence jarred  upon  her  nerves.  'Doesn't  ill-treat  the  child ! 
As  if  that  were  all !  I  wonder  what  Tom  would  say  if  I 
only  "didn't  ill-treat"  Patsie!' 

Thenceforward,  His  Majesty  the  King  was  an  hon- 
oured guest  at  the  Commissioner's  house,  and  the 
chosen  friend  of  Patsie,  with  whom  he  blundered  into 


HIS  MAJESTY  THE  KING  283 

iiS  many  scrapes  as  the  compound  and  the  servants' 
quarters  afforded.  Patsie's  Mamma  was  always  ready 
to  give  counsel,  help,  and  sympathy,  and,  if  need  were 
and  callers  few,  to  enter  into  their  games  with  an  abandon 
that  would  have  shocked  the  sleek-haired  subalterns  who 
squirmed  painfully  in  their  chairs  when  they  came  to  call 
on  her  whom  they  profanely  nicknamed  '  Mother  Bunch/ 

Yet,  in  spite  of  Patsie  and  Patsie's  Mamma,  and  the 
love  that  these  two  lavished  upon  him,  His  Majesty  the 
King  fell  grievously  from  grace,  and  committed  no  less  a 
sin  than  that  of  theft — unknown,  it  is  true,  but  burden- 
some. 

There  came  a  man  to  the  door  one  day,  when  His 
Majesty  was  playing  in  the  hall  and  the  bearer  had  gone 
to  dinner,  with  a  packet  for  His  Majesty's  Mamma.  And 
he  put  it  upon  the  hall- table,  and  said  that  there  was  no 
answer,  and  departed. 

Presently,  the  pattern  of  the  dado  ceased  to  interest 
His  Majesty,  while  the  packet,  a  white,  neatly  wrapped 
one  of  fascinating  shape,  interested  him  very  much  in- 
deed. His  Mamma  was  out,  so  was  Miss  Biddums,  and 
there  was  pink  string  round  the  packet.  He  greatly 
desired  pink  string.  It  would  help  him  in  many  of  his 
little  businesses — the  haulage  across  the  floor  of  his  small 
cane-chair,  the  torturing  of  Chimo,  who  could  never 
understand  harness — and  so  forth.  If  he  took  the  string 
it  would  be  his  own,  and  nobody  would  be  any  the  wiser. 
He  certainly  could  not  pluck  up  sufficient  courage  to  ask 
Mamma  for  it.  Wherefore,  mounting  upon  a  chair,  he 
carefully  untied  the  string  and,  behold,  the  stiff  white 
paper  spread  out  in  four  directions,  and  revealed  a  beauti- 
ful little  leather  box  with  gold  lines  upon  it!  He  tried  to 
replace  the  string,  but  that  was  a  failure.  So  he  opened 
the  box  to  get  full  satisfaction  for  his  iniquity,  and  saw  a 


284  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

most  beautiful  Star  that  shone  and  winked,  and  was  al- 
together lovely  and  desirable. 

'Vat/  said  His  Majesty  meditatively,  'is  a  'parkle 
cwown,  like  what  I  will  wear  when  I  go  to  heaven.  I  will 
wear  it  on  my  head — Miss  Biddums  says  so.  I  would  like 
to  wear  it  now.  I  would  like  to  play  wiv  it.  I  will  take  it 
away  and  play  wiv  it,  very  careful,  until  Mamma  asks 
for  it.  I  fink  it  was  bought  for  me  to  play  wiv — same  as 
my  cart.' 

His  Majesty  the  King  was  arguing  against  his  con- 
science, and  he  knew  it,  for  he  thought  immediately  after: 
'Never  mind,  I  will  keep  it  to  play  wiv  until  Mamma  says 
where  it  is,  and  then  I  will  say — "I  tookt  it  and  I  am 
sorry."  I  will  not  hurt  it  because  it  is  a  'parkle  cwown. 
But  Miss  Biddums  will  tell  me  to  put  it  back.  I  will  not 
show  it  to  Miss  Biddums.' 

If  Mamma  had  come  in  at  that  moment  all  would  have 
gone  well.  She  did  not,  and  His  Majesty  the  King  stuffed 
paper,  case,  and  jewel  into  the  breast  of  his  blouse  and 
marched  to  the  nursery. 

'When  Mamma  asks  I  will  tell,'  was  the  salve  that  he 
laid  upon  his  conscience.  But  Mamma  never  asked,  and 
for  three  whole  days  His  Majesty  the  King  gloated  over 
his  treasure.  It  was  of  no  earthly  use  to  him,  but  it  was 
splendid,  and,  for  aught  he  knew,  something  dropped  from 
the  heavens  themselves.  Still  Mamma  made  no  en- 
quiries, and  it  seemed  to  him,  in  his  furtive  peeps,  as 
though  the  shiny  stones  grew  dim.  What  was  the  use  of  a 
'parkle  cwown  if  it  made  a  little  boy  feel  all  bad  in  his  in- 
side? He  had  the  pink  string  as  well  as  the  other  treasure, 
but  greatly  he  wished  that  he  had  not  gone  beyond  the 
string.  It  was  his  first  experience  of  iniquity,  and  it 
pained  him  after  the  flush  of  possession  and  secret  delight 
in  the '  'parkle  cwown'  had  died  away. 


fflS  MAJESTY  THE  KING  285 

Each  day  that  he  delayed  rendered  confession  to  the 
people  beyond  the  nursery  doors  more  impossible.  Now 
and  again  he  determined  to  put  himself  in  the  path  of  the 
beautifully  attired  lady  as  she  was  going  out,  and  explain 
that  he  and  no  one  else  was  the  possessor  of  a  '  'parkle 
cwown,'  most  beautiful  and  quite  unenquired  for.  But 
she  passed  hurriedly  to  her  carriage,  and  the  opportunity 
was  gone  before  His  Majesty  the  King  could  draw  the  deep 
breath  which  clinches  noble  resolve.  The  dread  secret 
cut  him  off  from  Miss  Biddums,  Patsie,  and  the  Com- 
missioner's wife,  and — doubly  hard  fate — when  he 
brooded  over  it  Patsie  said,  and  told  her  mother,  that  he 
was  cross. 

The  days  were  very  long  to  His  Majesty  the  King,  and 
the  nights  longer  still.  Miss  Biddums  had  informed  him 
more  than  once,  what  was  the  ultimate  destiny  of  'fieves/ 
and  when  he  passed  the  interminable  mud  flanks  of  the 
Central  Jail,  he  shook  in  his  little  strapped  shoes. 

But  release  came  after  an  afternoon  spent  in  playing 
boats  by  the  edge  of  the  tank  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 
His  Majesty  the  King  went  to  tea,  and,  for  the  first  time 
in  his  memory,  the  meal  revolted  him.  His  nose  was  very 
cold,  and  his  cheeks  were  burning  hot.  There  was  a 
weight  about  his  feet,  and  he  pressed  his  head  several 
times  to  make  sure  that  it  was  not  swelling  as  he  sat. 

'  I  feel  vevy  funny,'  said  His  Majesty  the  King,  rubbing 
his  nose.  *  Vere's  a  buzz-buzz  in  my  head.' 

He  went  to  bed  quietly.  Miss  Biddums  was  out  and 
the  bearer  undressed  him. 

The  sin  of  the  "parkle  cwown'  was  forgotten  in  the 
acuteness  of  the  discomfort  to  which  he  roused  after  a 
leaden  sleep  of  some  hours.  He  was  thirsty,  and  the 
bearer  had  forgotten  to  leave  the  drinking-water.  '  Miss 
Biddums!  Miss  Biddums!  I'msokirsty!' 


886  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

No  answer.  Miss  Biddums  had  leave  to  attend  the 
wedding  of  a  Calcutta  schoolmate.  His  Majesty  the  King 
had  forgotten  that. 

'I  want  a  dwink  of  water!'  he  cried,  but  his  voice  was 
dried  up  in  his  throat.  'I  want  a  dwink!  Vere  is  ve 
glass? ' 

He  sat  up  in  bed  and  looked  round.  There  was  a  mur- 
mur of  voices  from  the  other  side  of  the  nursery  door.  It 
was  better  to  face  the  terrible  unknown  than  to  choke  in 
the  dark.  He  slipped  out  of  bed,  but  his  feet  were 
strangely  wilful,  and  he  reeled  once  or  twice.  Then  he 
pushed  the  door  open  and  staggered — a  puffed  and  purple- 
faced  little  figure — into  the  brilliant  light  of  the  dining- 
room  full  of  pretty  ladies. 

'I'm  vevy  hot!  I'm  vevy  uncomfitivle,'  moaned  His 
Majesty  the  King,  clinging  to  the  portiere,  'and  vere's 
no  water  in  ve  glass,  and  I'm  so  kirsty.  Give  me  a  dwink 
of  water.' 

An  apparition  in  black  and  white — His  Majesty  the 
King  could  hardly  see  distinctly — lifted  him  up  to  the 
level  of  the  table,  and  felt  his  wrists  and  forehead.  The 
water  came,  and  he  drank  deeply,  his  teeth  chattering 
against  the  edge  of  the  tumbler.  Then  every  one  seemed 
to  go  away — every  one  except  the  huge  man  in  black  and 
white,  who  carried  him  back  to  his  bed;  the  mother  and 
father  following.  And  the  sin  of  the  "parkle  cwown' 
rushed  back  and  took  possession  of  the  terrified  soul. 

'I'm  a  fief!'  he  gasped.  'I  want  to  tell  Miss  Biddums 
vat  I'm  a  fief.  Vere  is  Miss  Biddums? ' 

Miss  Biddums  had  come  and  was  bending  over  him. 
'I'm  a  fief,'  he  whispered.  'A  fief — like  ve  men  in  the 
pwison.  But  I'll  tell  now.  I  tookt — I  tookt  ve  'parkle 
cwown  when  the  man  that  came  left  it  in  ve  hall.  I  bwoke 
ve  paper  and  ve  little  bwown  box,  and  it  looked  shinv,  and 


HIS  MAJESTY  THE  KING  387 

I  tookt  it  to  play  wif ,  and  I  was  afwaid.  It's  in  ve  dooly- 
box  at  ve  bottom.  No  one  never  asked  for  it,  but  I  was 
afwaid.  Oh,  go  an'  get  ve  dooly-box ! ' 

Miss  Biddums  obediently  stooped  to  the  lowest  shelf  of 
the  almirah  and  unearthed  the  big  paper  box  in  which  His 
Majesty  the  King  kept  his  dearest  possessions.  Under 
the  tin  soldiers,  and  a  layer  of  mud  pellets  for  a  pellet- 
bow,  winked  and  blazed  a  diamond  star,  wrapped  roughly 
in  a  half-sheet  of  notepaper  whereon  were  written  a  few 
words. 

Somebody  was  crying  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  and  a 
man's  hand  touched  the  forehead  of  His  Majesty  the 
King,  who  grasped  the  packet  and  spread  it  on  the  bed. 

'Vat  is  ve  'parkle  cwown,'  he  said,  and  wept  bitterly; 
for  now  that  he  had  made  restitution  he  would  fain  have 
kept  the  shining  splendour  with  him. 

'It  concerns  you  too,'  said  a  voice  at  the  head  of  the 
bed.  '  Read  the  note.  This  is  not  the  time  to  keep  back 
anything.' 

The  note  was  curt,  very  much  to  the  point,  and  signed 
by  a  single  initial.  '//  you  wear  this  to-morrow  night  I 
sJtatt  know  what  to  expect'  The  date  was  three  weeks  old. 

A  whisper  followed,  and  the  deeper  voice  returned: 
'And  you  drifted  as  far  apart  as  iliail  I  think  it  makes  us 
quits  now,  doesn't  it?  Oh,  can't  we  drop  this  folly  once 
and  for  all?  Is  it  worth  it,  darling? ' 

'Kiss  me  too,'  said  His  Majesty  the  King  dreamily. 
'  You  isn't  vevy  angwy,  is  you? ' 

The  fever  burned  itself  out,  and  His  Majesty  the  King 
slept. 

When  he  waked,  it  was  in  a  new  world — peopled  by  his 
father  and  mother  as  well  as  Miss  Biddums:  and  there 
was  much  love  in  that  world  and  no  morsel  of  fear,  and 
more  petting  than  was  good  for  several  little  boys.  His 


288  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Majesty  the  King  was  too  young  to  moralise  on  the  un- 
certainty of  things  human,  or  he  would  have  been  im- 
pressed with  the  singular  advantages  of  crime — ay,  black 
sin.  Behold,  he  had  stolen  the  '  'parkle  cwown,'  and  his 
reward  was  Love,  and  the  right  to  play  in  the  waste- 
paper  basket  under  the  table  'for  always.' 


He  trotted  over  to  spend  an  afternoon  with  Patsie,  and 
the  Commissioner's  wife  would  have  kissed  him.  'No, 
not  vere,'  said  His  Majesty  the  King,  with  superb  inso- 
lence, fencing  one  corner  of  his  mouth  with  his  hand. 
'Vat's  my  Mamma's  place — vere  she  kisses  me.' 

'Oh!'  said  the  Commissioner's  wife  briefly.  Then  to 
herself:  'Well,  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  glad  for  his  sake. 
Children  are  selfish  little  grubs  and — I've  got  my  Patsie.' 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT 

IN  the  Army  List  they  still  stand  as  'The  Fore  and  Fit 
Princess  Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen-Anspach's  Merther- 
Tydfilshire  Own  Royal  Loyal  Light  Infantry,  Regimental 
District  329  A/  but  the  Army  through  all  its  barracks  and 
canteens  knows  them  now  as  the  'Fore  and  Aft.'  They 
may  in  tune  do  something  that  shall  make  their  new  title 
honourable,  but  at  present  they  are  bitterly  ashamed,  and 
the  man  who  calls  them  ' Fore  and  Aft'  does  so  at  the  risk 
of  the  head  which  is  on  his  shoulders. 

Two  words  breathed  into  the  stables  of  a  certain 
Cavalry  Regiment  will  bring  the  men  out  into  the  streets 
with  belts  and  mops  and  bad  language;  but  a  whisper  of 
'  Fore  and  Aft '  will  bring  out  this  regiment  with  rifles. 

Their  one  excuse  is  that  they  came  again  and  did  their 
best  to  finish  the  job  in  style.  But  for  a  time  all  their 
world  knows  that  they  were  openly  beaten,  whipped, 
dumb-cowed,  shaking  and  afraid.  The  men  know  it; 
their  officers  know  it;  the  Horse  Guards  know  it,  and 
when  the  next  war  comes  the  enemy  will  know  it  also. 
There  are  two  or  three  regiments  of  the  Line  that  have  a 
black  mark  against  their  names  which  they  will  then  wipe 
out;  and  it  will  be  excessively  inconvenient  for  the  troops 
upon  whom  they  do  their  wiping. 

The  courage  of  the  British  soldier  is  officially  supposed 
to  be  above  proof,  and,  as  a  general  rule,  it  is  so.  The 
exceptions  are  decently  shovelled  out  of  sight,  only  to  be 
referred  to  in  the  freshest  of  unguarded  talk  that  occas- 


2QQ  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

ionally  swamps  a  Mess-table  at  midnight.  Then  one 
hears  strange  and  horrible  stories  of  men  not  following 
their  officers,  of  orders  being  given  by  those  who  had  no 
right  to  give  them,  and  of  disgrace  that,  but  for  the  stand- 
ing luck  of  the  British  Army,  might  have  ended  in 
brilliant  disaster.  These  are  unpleasant  stories  to  listen 
to,  and  the  Messes  tell  them  under  their  breath,  sitting  by 
the  big  wood  fires,  and  the  young  officer  bows  his  head 
and  thinks  to  himself,  please  God,  his  men  shall  never  be- 
have unhandily. 

The  British  soldier  is  not  altogether  to  be  blamed 
for  occasional  lapses;  but  this  verdict  he  should  not  know. 
A  moderately  intelligent  General  will  waste  six  months 
in  mastering  the  craft  of  the  particular  war  that  he  may 
be  waging;  a  Colonel  may  utterly  misunderstand  the 
capacity  of  his  regiment  for  three  months  after  it  has 
taken  the  field,  and  even  a  Company  Commander  may 
err  and  be  deceived  as  to  the  temper  and  temperament 
of  his  own  handful:  wherefore  the  soldier,  and  the  soldier 
of  to-day  more  particularly,  should  not  be  blamed  for 
falling  back.  He  should  be  shot  or  hanged  afterwards — 
to  encourage  the  others;  but  he  should  not  be  vilified 
in  newspapers,  for  that  is  want  of  tact  and  waste  of 
space. 

He  has,  let  us  say,  been  in  the  service  of  the  Empress 
for,  perhaps,  four  years.  He  will  leave  in  another  two 
years.  He  has  no  inherited  morals,  and  four  years  are 
not  sufficient  to  drive  toughness  into  his  fibre,  or  to 
teach  him  how  holy  a  thing  is  his  Regiment.  He  wants 
to  drink,  he  wants  to  enjoy  himself — in  India  he  wants 
to  save  money — and  he  does  not  in  the  least  like  get- 
ting hurt.  He  has  received  just  sufficient  education  to 
make  him  understand  half  the  purport  of  the  orders  he 
receives,  and  to  speculate  on  the  nature  of  clean,  incised, 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  291 

and  shattering  wounds.  Thus,  if  he  is  told  to  deploy 
under  fire  preparatory  to  an  attack,  he  knows  that  he 
runs  a  very  great  risk  of  being  killed  while  he  is  de- 
ploying, and  suspects  that  he  is  being  thrown  away  to 
gain  ten  minutes'  time.  He  may  either  deploy  with  des- 
perate swiftness,  or  he  may  shuffle,  or  bunch,  or  break, 
according  to  the  discipline  under  which  he  has  lain  for 
four  years. 

Armed  with  imperfect  knowledge,  cursed  with  the 
rudiments  of  an  imagination,  hampered  by  the  intense 
selfishness  of  the  lower  classes,  and  unsupported  by  any 
regimental  associations,  this  young  man  is  suddenly  in- 
troduced to  an  enemy  who  in  eastern  lands  is  always 
ugly,  generally  tall  and  hairy,  and  frequently  noisy. 
If  he  looks  to  the  right  and  the  left  and  sees  old  soldiers 
— men  of  twelve  years'  service,  who,  he  knows,  know 
what  they  are  about — taking  a  charge,  rush,  or  demon- 
stration without  embarrassment,  he  is  consoled  and 
applies  his  shoulder  to  the  butt  of  his  rifle  with  a  stout 
heart.  His  peace  is  the  greater  if  he  hears  a  senior, 
who  has  taught  him  his  soldiering  and  broken  his  head 
on  occasion,  whispering:  'They'll  shout  and  carry  on 
like  this  for  five  minutes.  Then  they'll  rush  in,  and 
then  we've  got  'em  by  the  short  hairs!' 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  if  he  sees  only  men  of  his  own 
term  of  service,  turning  white  and  playing  with  their 
triggers  and  saying:  'What  the  Hell's  up  now?'  while 
the  Company  Commanders  are  sweating  into  their 
sword-hilts  and  shouting:  'Front-rank,  fix  bayonets. 
Steady  there — steady!  Sight  for  three  hundred — no, 
for  five!  Lie  down,  all!  Steady!  Front-rank  kneel!' 
and  so  forth,  he  becomes  unhappy,  and  grows  acutely 
miserable  when  he  hears  a  comrade  turn  over  with  the 
rattle  of  fire-irons  falling  into  the  fender,  and  the  grunt 


292  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

of  a  pole-axed  ox.  If  he  can  be  moved  about  a  little 
and  allowed  to  watch  the  effect  of  his  own  fire  on  the 
enemy  he  feels  merrier,  and  may  be  then  worked  up  to 
the  blind  passion  of  fighting,  which  is,  contrary  to  gen- 
eral belief,  controlled  by  a  chilly  Devil  and  shakes  men 
like  ague.  If  he  is  not  moved  about,  and  begins  to  feel 
cold  at  the  pit  of  the  stomach,  and  in  that  crisis  is  badly 
mauled  and  hears  orders  that  were  never  given,  he  will 
break,  and  he  will  break  badly,  and  of  all  things  under 
the  light  of  the  Sun  there  is  nothing  more  terrible  than 
a  broken  British  regiment.  When  the  worst  comes  to 
the  worst  and  the  panic  is  really  epidemic,  the  men 
must  be  e'en  let  go,  and  the  Company  Commanders  had 
better  escape  to  the  enemy  and  stay  there  for  safety's 
sake.  If  they  can  be  made  to  come  again  they  are  not 
pleasant  men  to  meet;  because  they  will  not  break  twice. 

About  thirty  years  from  this  date,  when  we  have 
succeeded  in  half-educating  everything  that  wears 
trousers,  our  Army  will  be  a  beautifully  unreliable 
machine.  It  will  know  too  much  and  it  will  do  too 
little.  Later  still,  when  all  men  are  at  the  mental  level 
of  the  officer  of  to-day,  it  will  sweep  the  earth.  Speak- 
ing roughly,  you  must  employ  either  blackguards  or 
gentlemen,  or,  best  of  all,  blackguards  commanded  by 
gentlemen,  to  do  butcher's  work  with  efficiency  and 
despatch.  The  ideal  soldier  should,  of  course,  think 
for  himself — the  Pocket-book  says  so.  Unfortunately, 
to  attain  this  virtue,  he  has  to  pass  through  the  phase 
of  thinking  of  himself,  and  that  is  misdirected  genius. 
A  blackguard  may  be  slow  to  think  for  himself,  but  he 
is  genuinely  anxious  to  kill,  and  a  little  punishment 
teaches  him  how  to  guard  his  own  skin  and  perforate 
another's.  A  powerfully  prayerful  Highland  Regi- 
ment, officered  by  rank  Presbyterians,  is,  perhaps,  one 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  293 

degree  more  terrible  in  action  than  a  hard-bitten  thou- 
sand of  irresponsible  Irish  ruffians  led  by  most  improper 
young  unbelievers.  But  these  things  prove  the  rule— 
which  is  that  the  midway  men  are  not  to  be  trusted 
alone.  They  have  ideas  about  the  value  of  life  and  an 
upbringing  that  has  not  taught  them  to  go  on  and  take 
the  chances.  They  are  carefully  unprovided  with  a 
backing  of  comrades  who  have  been  shot  over,  and  until 
that  backing  is  re-introduced,  as  a  great  many  Regi- 
mental Commanders  intend  it  shall  be,  they  are  more 
liable  to  disgrace  themselves  than  the  size  of  the  Empire 
or  the  dignity  of  the  Army  allows.  Their  officers  are 
as  good  as  good  can  be,  because  their  training  begins 
early,  and  God  has  arranged  that  a  clean-run  youth  of 
the  British  middle  classes  shall,  in  the  matter  of  back- 
bone, brains,  and  bowels,  surpass  all  other  youths.  For 
this  reason  a  child  of  eighteen  will  stand  up,  doing 
nothing,  with  a  tin  sword  in  his  hand  and  joy  in  his 
heart  until  he  is  dropped.  If  he  dies,  he  ch'es  like  a 
gentleman.  If  he  lives,  he  writes  Home  that  he  has 
been  'potted,'  'sniped,'  'chipped,'  or  'cut  over,'  and 
sits  down  to  besiege  Government  for  a  wound-gratuity 
until  the  next  little  war  breaks  out,  when  he  perjures 
himself  before  a  Medical  Board,  blarneys  his  Colonel, 
burns  incense  round  his  Adjutant,  and  is  allowed  to  go 
to  the  Front  once  more. 

Which  homily  brings  me  directly  to  a  brace  of  the 
most  finished  little  fiends  that  ever  banged  drum  or 
tootled  fife  in  the  Band  of  a  British  Regiment.  They 
ended  their  sinful  career  by  open  and  flagrant  mutiny 
and  were  shot  for  it.  Their  names  were  Jakiii  and 
Lew — Piggy  Lew — and  they  were  bold,  bad  drummer- 
boys,  both  of  them  frequently  birched  by  the  Drum- 
Major  of  the  Fore  and  Aft. 


294  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Jakin  was  a  stunted  child  of  fourteen,  and  Lew  was 
about  the  same  age.  When  not  looked  after,  they 
smoked  and  drank.  They  swore  habitually  after  the 
manner  of  the  Barrack-room,  which  is  cold-swearing 
and  comes  from  between  clinched  teeth,  and  they  fought 
religiously  once  a  week.  Jakin  had  sprung  from  some 
London  gutter  and  may  or  may  not  have  passed  through 
Dr.  Barnardo's  hands  ere  he  arrived  at  the  dignity  of 
drummer-boy.  Lew  could  remember  nothing  except 
the  Regiment  and  the  delight  of  listening  to  the  Band 
from  his  earliest  years.  He  hid  somewhere  in  his  grimy 
little  soul  a  genuine  love  for  music,  and  was  most  mis- 
takenly furnished  with  the  head  of  a  cherub:  insomuch 
that  beautiful  ladies  who  watched  the  Regiment  in 
church  were  wont  to  speak  of  him  as  a  'darling.'  They 
never  heard  his  vitriolic  comments  on  their  manners 
and  morals,  as  he  walked  back  to  barracks  with  the 
Band  and  matured  fresh  causes  of  offence  against 
Jakin. 

The  other  drummer-boys  hated  both  lads  on  account 
of  their  illogical  conduct.  Jakin  might  be  pounding 
Lew,  or  Lew  might  be  rubbing  Jakin's  head  in  the 
dirt,  but  any  attempt  at  aggression  on  the  part  of  an 
outsider  was  met  by  the  combined  forces  of  Lew  and 
Jakin;  and  the  consequences  were  painful.  The  boys 
were  the  Ishmaels  of  the  corps,  but  wealthy  Ishmaels, 
for  they  sold  battles  in  alternate  weeks  for  the  sport  of 
the  barracks  when  they  were  not  pitted  against  other 
boys;  and  thus  amassed  money. 

On  this  particular  day  there  was  dissension  in  the 
camp.  They  had  just  been  convicted  afresh  of  smok- 
ing, which  is  bad  for  little  boys  who  use  plug-tobacco, 
and  Lew's  contention  was  that  Jakin  had  '  stunk  so 
'orrid  bad  from  keepin'  the  pipe  in  pocket,'  that  he  and 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  295 

he  alone  was  responsible  for  the  birching  they  were  both 
tingling  under. 

'I  tell  you  I  'id  the  pipe  back  o'  barracks,'  said  Jakin 
pacifically. 

'You're  a  bloomin'  liar,'  said  Lew  without  heat. 

'You're  a  bloomin'  little  barstard,'  said  Jakin,  strong 
in  the  knowledge  that  his  own  ancestry  was  unknown. 
Now  there  is  one  word  in  the  extended  vocabulary 
of  Barrack-room  abuse  that  cannot  pass  without  com- 
ment. You  may  call  a  man  a  thief  and  risk  nothing. 
You  may  even  call  him  a  coward  without  finding  more 
than  a  boot  whiz  past  your  ear,  but  you  must  not  call  a 
man  a  bastard  unless  you  are  prepared  to  prove  it  on 
his  front  teeth.  » 

'You  might  ha'  kep'  that  till  I  wasn't  so  sore,'  said 
Lew  sorrowfully,  dodging  round  Jakin's  guard. 

'I'll  make  you  sorer,'  said  Jakin  genially,  and  got 
home  on  Lew's  alabaster  forehead.  All  would  have 
gone  well  and  this  story,  as  the  books  say,  would  never 
have  been  written,  had  not  his  evil  fate  prompted  the 
Bazar-Sergeant's  son,  a  long,  employless  man  of  five- 
and-twenty,  to  put  in  an  appearance  after  the  first 
round.  He  was  eternally  in  need  of  money,  and  knew 
that  the  boys  had  silver. 

'Fighting  again,'  said  he.  'I'll  report  you  to  my 
father,  and  he'll  report  you  to  the  Colour-Sergeant.' 

'What's  that  to  you?'  said  Jakin  with  an  unpleasant 
dilation  of  the  nostrils. 

'Oh!  nothing  to  me.  You'll  get  into  trouble,  and 
you've  been  up  too  often  to  afford  that/ 

'What  the  Hell  do  you  know  about  what  we've 
done? '  asked  Lew  the  Seraph.  '  You  aren't  in  the  Army, 
you  lousy,  cadging  civilian.' 

He  closed  in  on  the  man's  left  flank. 


296  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

'Jes'  'cause  you  find  two  gentlemen  settlin'  their 
diff'rences  with  their  fistes  you  stick  in  your  ugly  nose 
where  you  aren't  wanted.  Run  'ome  to  your  'arf-caste 
slut  of  a  Ma — or  we'll  give  you  what-for,'  said  Jakin. 

The  man  attempted  reprisals  by  knocking  the  boys' 
heads  together.  The  scheme  would  have  succeeded 
had  not  Jakin  punched  him  vehemently  in  the  stomach, 
or  had  Lew  refrained  from  kicking  his  shins.  They 
fought  together,  bleeding  and  breathless,  for  half  an 
hour,  and,  after  heavy  punishment,  triumphantly  pulled 
down  their  opponent  as  terriers  pull  down  a  jackal. 

'Now,'  gasped  Jakin,  'I'll  give  you  what-for.'  He 
proceeded  to  pound  the  man's  features  while  Lew 
stamped  on  the  outlying  portions  of  his  anatomy. 
Chivalry  is  not  a  strong  point  in  the  composition  of 
the  average  drummer-boy.  He  fights,  as  do  his  betters, 
to  make  his  mark. 

Ghastly  was  the  ruin  that  escaped,  and  awful  was  the 
wrath  of  the  Bazar-Sergeant.  Awful  too  was  the  scene 
in  Orderly-room  when  the  two  reprobates  appeared  to 
answer  the  charge  of  half -murdering  a  'civilian.'  The 
Bazar-Sergeant  thirsted  for  a  criminal  action,  and  his 
son  lied.  The  boys  stood  to  attention  while  the  black 
clouds  of  evidence  accumulated. 

'You  little  devils  are  more  trouble  than  the  rest  of  the 
Regiment  put  together,'  said  the  Colonel  angrily.  'One 
might  as  well  admonish  thistledown,  and  I  can't  well 
put  you  in  cells  or  under  stoppages.  You  must  be 
birched  again.' 

'Beg  y'  pardon,  Sir.  Can't  we  say  nothin'  in  our 
own  defence,  Sir?'  shrilled  Jakin. 

'Hey!  What?  Are  you  going  to  argue  with  me?' 
said  the  Colonel. 

'No,  Sir,'  said  Lew.    'But  if  a  man  come  to  you,  Sir, 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  297 

and  said  he  was  going  to  report  you,  Sir,  for  'aving  a 
bit  of  a  turn-up  with  a  friend,  Sir,  an'  wanted  to  get 
money  out  o'  you,  Sir — 

The  Orderly-room  exploded  in  a  roar  of  laughter. 
'Well?'  said  the  Colonel. 

'That  was  what  that  measly  jarmvar  there  did,  Sir,  and 
Vd  'a'  done  it,  Sir,  if  we  'adn't  prevented  'im.  We  didn't 
'it  'im  much,  Sir.  'E  'adn't  no  manner  o'  right  to  inter- 
fere with  us,  Sir.  I  don't  mind  bein'  birched  by  the  Drum- 
Major,  Sir,  nor  yet  reported  by  any  Corp'ral,  but  I'm — 
but  I  don't  think  it's  fair,  Sir,  for  a  civilian  to  come  an* 
talk  over  a  man  in  the  Army.' 

A  second  shout  of  laughter  shook  the  Orderly  -room, 
but  the  Colonel  was  grave. 

'  What  sort  of  characters  have  these  boys?'  he  asked 
of  the  Regimental  Sergeant-Major. 

'Accordin'  to  the  Bandmaster,  Sir,'  returned  that 
revered  official — the  only  soul  in  the  Regiment  whom  the 
boys  feared — '  they  do  everything  but  lie,  Sir.' 

'  Is  it  like  we'd  go  for  that  man  for  fun,  Sir? '  said  Lew, 
pointing  to  the  plaintiff. 

'Oh,  admonished, — admonished!'  said  the  Colonel 
testily,  and  when  the  boys  had  gone  he  read  the  Bazar- 
Sergeant's  son  a  lecture  on  the  sin  of  unprofitable  med- 
dling, and  gave  orders  that  the  Bandmaster  should  keep 
the  Drums  in  better  discipline. 

'  If  either  of  you  come  to  practice  again  with  so  much  as 
a  scratch  on  your  two  ugly  little  faces,'  thundered  the 
Bandmaster,  'I'll  tell  the  Drum-Major  to  take  the  skin 
off  your  backs.  Understand  that,  you  young  devils.' 

Then  he  repented  of  his  speech  for  just  the  length  of 
time  that  Lew,  looking  like  a  seraph  in  red  worsted  em- 
bellishments, took  the  place  of  one  of  the  trumpets — in 
hospital — and  rendered  the  echo  of  a  battle-piece.  Lew 


«98  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

certainly  was  a  musician,  and  had  often  in  his  more 
exalted  moments  expressed  a  yearning  to  master  every  in- 
strument of  the  Band. 

'There's  nothing  to  prevent  your  becoming  a  Band- 
master, Lew,'  said  the  Bandmaster,  who  had  composed 
waltzes  of  his  own,  and  worked  day  and  night  in  the  in- 
terests of  the  Band. 

'What  did  he  say? '  demanded  Jakin  after  practice. 

'  'Said  I  might  be  a  bloomin'  Bandmaster,  an'  be  asked 
in  to  'ave  a  glass  o'  sherry-wine  on  Mess-nights.' 

'Ho!  'Said  you  might  be  a  bloomin'  non-combatant, 
did  'e!  That's  just  about  wot  'e  would  say.  When  I've 
put  in  my  boy's  service — it's  a  bloomin'  shame  that 
doesn't  count  for  pension — I'll  take  on  as  a  privit.  Then 
I'll  be  a  Lance  in  a  year — knowin'  what  I  know  about  the 
ins  and  outs  o'  things.  In  three  years  I'll  be  a  bloomin' 
Sergeant.  I  won't  marry  then,  not  I!  I'll  'old  on  and 
learn  the  orf'cers'  ways  an'  apply  for  exchange  into  a 
reg'ment  that  doesn't  know  all  about  me.  Then  I'll  be  a 
bloomin'  orf'cer.  Then  I'll  ask  you  to  'ave  a  glass  o' 
sherry-wine,  Mister  Lew,  an'  you'll  bloomin'  well  'ave  to 
stay  in  the  hanty-room  while  the  Mess-Sergeant  brings  it 
to  your  dirty  'ands.' 

'  'S'pose  I'm  going  to  be  a  Bardmaster?  Not  I,  quite. 
I'll  be  a  orf'cer  too.  There's  nofhin'  like  takin'  to  a  thing 
an'  stickin'  to  it,  the  Schoolmaster  says.  The  Reg'ment 
don't  go  'ome  for  another  seven  years.  I'll  be  a  Lance 
then  or  near  to.' 

Thus  the  boys  discussed  their  futures,  and  conducted 
themselves  piously  for  a  week.  That  is  to  say,  Lew 
started  a  flirtation  with  the  Colour-Sergeant's  daughter, 
aged  thirteen — 'not,'  as  he  explained  to  Jakin,  'with  any 
intention  o'  matrimony,  but  by  way  o'  keepin'  my  'and 
in.'  And  the  black-haired  Cris  Delighan  enjoyed  that 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  299 

flirtation  more  than  previous  ones,  and  the  other  drummer- 
boys  raged  furiously  together,  and  Jakin  preached 
sermons  on  the  dangers  of  'bein'  tangled  along  o'  petti- 
coats.' 

But  neither  love  nor  virtue  would  have  held  Lew  long 
in  the  paths  of  propriety  had  not  the  rumour  gone  abroad 
that  the  Regiment  was  to  be  sent  on  active  service,  to  take 
part  in  a  war  which,  for  the  sake  of  brevity,  we  will  call 
'  The  War  of  the  Lost  Tribes.' 

The  barracks  had  the  rumour  almost  before  the  Mess- 
room,  and  of  all  the  nine  hundred  men  in  barracks,  not 
ten  had  seen  a  shot  fired  in  anger.  The  Colonel  had, 
twenty  years  ago,  assisted  at  a  Frontier  expedition;  one  of 
the  Majors  had  seen  service  at  the  Cape;  a  confirmed 
deserter  in  E  Company  had  helped  to  clear  streets  in 
Ireland;  but  that  was  all.  The  Regiment  had  been  put 
by  for  many  years.  The  overwhelming  mass  of  its  rank 
and  file  had  from  three  to  four  years'  service;  the  non- 
commissioned officers  were  under  thirty  years  old;  and 
men  and  sergeants  alike  had  forgotten  to  speak  of  the 
stories  written  in  brief  upon  the  Colours — the  New 
Colours  that  had  been  formally  blessed  by  an  Archbishop 
in  England  ere  the  Regiment  came  away. 

They  wanted  to  go  to  fthe  Front — they  were  enthusias- 
tically anxious  to  go — but.  they  had  no  knowledge  of  what 
war  meant,  and  there  wasnone  to  tell  them.  They  were  an 
educated  regiment,  the  percentage  of  school-certificates 
in  their  ranks  was  high,  and  most  of  the  men  could  do 
more  than  read  and  write.  They  had  been  recruited  in 
loyal  observance  of  the  territorial  idea;  but  they  them- 
selves had  no  notion  of  that  idea.  They  were  made  up  of 
drafts  from  an  over-populated  manufacturing  district. 
The  system  had  put  flesh  and  muscle  upon  their  small 
bones,  but  it  could  not  put  heart  into  the  sons  of  those 


300  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

who  for  generations  had  done  overmuch  work  for  over- 
scanty  pay,  had  sweated  in  drying-rooms,  stooped  over 
looms,  coughed  among  white-lead,  and  shivered  on  lime- 
barges.  The  men  had  found  food  and  rest  in  the  Army, 
and  now  they  were  going  to  fight  'niggers' — people  who 
ran  away  if  you  shook  a  stick  at  them.  Wherefore  they 
cheered  lustily  when  the  rumour  ran,  and  the  shrewd, 
clerkly  non-commissioned  officers  speculated  on  the 
chances  of  batta  and  of  saving  their  pay.  At  Head- 
quarters, men  said:  'The  Fore  and  Fit  have  never  been 
under  fire  within  the  last  generation.  Let  us,  therefore, 
break  them  in  easily  by  setting  them  to  guard  lines  of  com- 
munication.' And  this  would  have  been  done  but  for  the 
fact  that  British  Regiments  were  wanted — badly  wanted 
— at  the  Front,  and  there  were  doubtful  Native  Regi- 
ments that  could  fill  the  minor  duties.  '  Brigade  'em  with 
two  strong  Regiments,'  said  Headquarters.  'They  may 
be  knocked  about  a  bit,  but  they'll  learn  their  business  be- 
fore they  come  through.  Nothing  like  a  night-alarm  and 
a  little  cutting-up  of  stragglers  to  make  a  Regiment  smart 
in  the  field.  Wait  till  they've  had  half  a  dozen  sentries' 
throats  cut.' 

The  Colonel  wrote  with  delight  that  the  temper  of  his 
men  was  excellent,  that  the  Regiment  was  all  that  could 
be  wished,  and  as  sound  as  a  bell.  The  Majors  smiled 
with  a  sober  joy,  and  the  subalterns  waltzed  in  pairs  down 
the  Mess-room  after  dinner,  and  nearly  shot  themselves 
at  revolver-practice.  But  there  was  consternation  in  the 
hearts  of  Jakin  and  Lew.  What  was  to  be  done  with  the 
Drums?  Would  the  Band  go  to  the  Front?  How  many 
of  the  Drums  would  accompany  the  Regiment? 

They  took  council  together,  sitting  in  a  tree  and  smok- 
ing. 

'It's  more  than  a  bloomin'  toss-up  they'll  leave  us 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  301 

be'ind  at  the  Dep6t  with  the  women.  You'll  like  that,' 
said  Jakin  sarcastically. 

"Cause  o'  Cris,  y'  mean?  Wot's  a  woman,  or  a  'ole 
bloomin'  depdt  o'  women,  'longside  o'  the  chanst  of  field- 
service?  You  know  I'm  as  keen  on  goin'  as  you,'  said  Lew. 

'  'Wish  I  was  a  bloomin'  bugler,'  said  Jakin  sadly. 
'They'll  take  Tom  Kidd  along,  that  I  can  plaster  a  wall 
with,  an'  like  as  not  they  won't  take  us.' 

'Then  let's  go  an'  make  Tom  Kidd  so  bloomin'  sick  'e 
can't  bugle  no  more.  You  'old  'is  'ands  an'  I'll  kick  'im,' 
said  Lew,  wriggling  on  the  branch. 

'  That  ain't  no  good  neither.  We  ain't  the  sort  o'  char- 
acters to  presoon  on  our  rep'tations — they're  bad.  If  they 
have  the  Band  at  the  Depot  we  don't  go,  and  no  error 
there.  If  they  take  the  Band  we  may  get  cast  for  medi- 
cal unfitness.  Are  you  medical  fit,  Piggy?'  said  Jakin, 
digging  Lew  in  the  ribs  with  force. 

'Yus,'  said  Lew  with  an  oath.  'The  Doctor  says  your 
•'cart's  weak  through  smokin'  on  an  empty  stummick. 
Throw  a  chest  an'  I'll  try  yer.' 

Jakin  threw  out  his  chest,  which  Lew  smote  with  all  his 
might.  Jakin  turned  very  pale,  gasped,  crowed,  screwed 
up  his  eyes  and  said — 'That's  all  right.' 

'You'll  do,'  said  Lew.  'I've  'card  o'  men  dying  when 
you  'it  'em  fair  on  the  breastbone.' 

'Don't  bring  us  no  nearer  goin',  though,'  said  Jakin. 
'  Do  you  know  where  we're  ordered? ' 

'  Gawd  knows,  an'  'E  won't  split  on  a  pal.  Somewheres 
up  to  the  Front  to  kill  Paythans — hairy  big  beggars  that 
turn  you  inside  out  if  they  get  'old  o'  you.  They  say  their 
women  are  good-looking,  too.' 

'  Any  loot? '  asked  the  abandoned  Jakin. 

'Not  a  bloomin'  anna,  they  say,  unless  you  dig  up  the 
ground  an'  see  what  the  niggers  'ave  'id.  They're  a  poor 


30*  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

lot.'  Jakin  stood  upright  on  the  branch  and  gazed  across 
the  plain. 

'Lew/  said  he,  'there's  the  Colonel  coming.  'Colonel's 
a  good  old  beggar.  Let's  go  an'  talk  to  'im.' 

Lew  nearly  fell  out  of  the  tree  at  the  audacity  of  the 
suggestion.  Like  Jakin  he  feared  not  God,  neither  re- 
garded he  Man,  but  there  are  limits  even  to  the  audacity 
of  a  drummer-boy,  and  to  speak  to  a  Colonel  was — 

'  But  Jakin  had  slid  down  the  trunk  and  doubled  in  the 
direction  of  the  Colonel.  That  officer  was  walking 
wrapped  in  thought  and  visions  of  a  C.  B. — yes,  even  a  K. 
C.  B.,  for  had  he  not  at  command  one  of  the  best  Regi- 
ments of  the  Line — the  Fore  and  Fit?  And  he  was  aware 
of  two  small  boys  charging  down  upon  him.  Once  before 
it  had  been  solemnly  reported  to  him  that  'the  Drums 
were  hi  a  state  of  mutiny,'  Jakin  and  Lew  being  the  ring- 
leaders. This  looked  like  an  organised  conspiracy. 

The  boys  halted  at  twenty  yards,  walked  to  the  regula- 
tion four  paces,  and  saluted  together,  each  as  well  set-up 
as  a  ramrod  and  little  taller. 

The  Colonel  was  in  a  genial  mood;  the  boys  appeared 
very  forlorn  and  unprotected  on  the  desolate  plain,  and 
one  of  them  was  handsome. 

'Well!'  said  the  Colonel,  recognising  them.  'Are  you 
going  to  pull  me  down  hi  the  open?  I'm  sure  I  never  in- 
interfere  with  you,  even  though' — he  sniffed  suspiciously 
—'you  have  been  smoking.' 

It  was  time  to  strike  while  the  iron  was  hot.  Their 
hearts  beat  tumultuously. 

'Beg  y'  pardon,  Sir,'  began  Jakin.  'The  Reg'ment's 
ordered  on  active  service,  Sir? ' 

'  So  I  believe,'  said  the  Colonel  courteously. 

'Is  the  Band  goin',  Sir?'  said  both  together.  Then, 
without  pause,  'We're  goin',  Sir,  ain't  we? ' 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  303 

'You!'  said  the  Colonel  stepping  back  the  more  fully  to 
take  in  the  two  small  figures.  'You!  You'd  die  in  the 
first  march.' 

'No,  we  wouldn't,  Sir.  We  can  march  with  the  Reg'- 
ment  anywheres — p'rade  an'  anywhere  else,'  said  Jakin. 

'If  Tom  Kidd  goes  'e'll  shut  up  like  a  clasp-knife,'  said 
Lew.  '  Tom  'as  very-close  veins  in  both  'is  legs,  Sir.' 

'  Very  how  much? ' 

'Very-close  veins,  Sir.  That's  why  they  swells  after 
long  p'rade,  Sir.  If  'e  can  go,  we  can  go,  Sir.' 

Again  the  Colonel  looked  at  them  long  and  intently. 

'  Yes,  the  Band  is  going,'  he  said  as  gravely  as  though  he 
had  been  addressing  a  brother  officer.  'Have  you  any 
parents,  either  of  you  two? ' 

'  No,  Sir,'  rejoicingly  from  Lew  and  Jakin.  '  We're  both 
orphans,  Sir.  There's  no  one  to  be  considered  of  on  our 
account,  Sir. ' 

'You  poor  little  sprats,  and  you  want  to  go  up  to  the 
Front  with  the  Regiment,  do  you?  Why? ' 

'I've  wore  the  Queen's  Uniform  for  two  years,'  said 
Jakin.  '  It's  very  'ard,  Sir,  that  a  man  don't  get  no  rec- 
ompense for  doin'  of  'is  dooty,  Sir.' 

'An' — an'  if  I  don't  go,  Sir,'  interrupted  Lew,  'the 
Bandmaster  'e  says  'e'll  catch  an'  make  a  bloo— a  blessed 
musician  o'  me,  Sir.  Before  I've  seen  any  service,  Sir.' 

The  Colonel  made  no  answer  for  a  long  time.  Then  he 
said  quietly:  'If  you're  passed  by  the  Doctor  I  dare  say 
you  can  go.  I  shouldn't  smoke  if  I  were  you.' 

The  boys  saluted  and  disappeared.  The  Colonel  walked 
home  and  told  the  story  to  his  wife,  who  nearly  cried  over 
it.  The  Colonel  was  well  pleased.  If  that  was  the 
temper  of  the  children,  what  would  not  the  men  do? 

Jakin  and  Lew  entered  the  boys'  barrack-room  with 
great  stateliness,  and  refused  to  hold  any  conversation 


304  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

with  their  comrades  for  at  least  ten  minutes.  Then, 
bursting  with  pride,  Jakin  drawled:  'I've  bin  inter- 
vooin'  the  Colonel.  Good  old  beggar  is  the  Colonel. 
Says  I  to  'im  "Colonel,"  says  I,  "let  me  go  to  the 
Front,  along  o'  the  Reg'ment."— "To  the  Front  you 
shall  go,"  says  'e,  "an'  I  only  wish  there  was  more  like 
you  among  the  dirty  little  devils  that  bang  the  bloomin' 
drums."  Kidd,  if  you  throw  your  'courtrements  at  me 
for  tellin'  you  the  truth  to  your  own  advantage,  your 
legs'll  swell.' 

None  the  less  there  was  a  Battle-Royal  in  the  barrack- 
room,  for  the  boys  were  consumed  with  envy  and  hate, 
and  neither  Jakin  nor  Lew  behaved  in  conciliatory 
wise. 

'I'm  goin'  out  to  say  adoo  to  my  girl,'  said  Lew,  to 
cap  the  climax.  'Don't  none  o'  you  touch  my  kit 
because  it's  wanted  for  active  service;  me  bein'  specially 
invited  to  go  by  the  Colonel.' 

He  strolled  forth  and  whistled  in  the  clump  of  trees 
at  the  back  of  the  Married  Quarters  till  Cris  came  to 
him,  and,  the  preliminary  kisses  being  given  and  taken, 
Lew  began  to  explain  the  situation. 

'I'm  goin'  to  the  Front  with  the  Reg'ment,'  he  said 
valiantly. 

'Piggy,  you're  a  little  liar,'  said  Cris,  but  her  heart 
misgave  her,  for  Lew  was  not  in  the  habit  of  lying. 

'Liar  yourself,  Cris,'  said  Lew,  slipping  an  arm  round 
her.  'I'm  goin'.  When  the  Reg'ment  marches  out 
you'll  see  me  with  'em,  all  galliant  and  gay.  Give  us 
another  kiss,  Cris,  on  the  strength  of  it.' 

'If  you'd  on'y  a-stayed  at  the  Dep6t — where  you 
ought  to  ha'  bin — you  could  get  as  many  of  'em  as — as 
you  dam  please,'  whimpered  Cris,  putting  up  her  mouth. 

'It's  'ard,  Cris.    I  grant  you  it's  'ard.     But  what's  a 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  305 

man  to  do?  If  I'd  a-  stayed  at  the  Dep6t,  you  wouldn't 
think  anything  of  me.' 

'Like  as  not,  but  I'd  'ave  you  with  me,  Piggy.  An' 
all  the  thinkin'  in  the  world  isn't  like  kissin'.' 

'An'  all  the  kissin'  in  the  world  isn't  like  'avin'  a  medal 
to  wear  on  the  front  o'  your  coat.' 

'  You  won't  get  no  medal.' 

'Oh  yus,  I  shall  though.  Me  an'  Jakin  are  the  only 
acting-drummers  that'll  be  took  along.  All  the  rest  is 
full  men,  an'  we'll  get  our  medals  with  them.' 

'They  might  ha'  taken  anybody  but  you,  Piggy. 
You'll  get  killed — you're  so  venturesome.  Stay  with 
me,  Piggy,  darlin',  down  at  the  Dep6t,  an'  I'll  love  you 
true,  for  ever.' 

'  Ain't  you  goin'  to  do  that  now,  Cris?  You  said  you 
was.' 

'O'  course  I  am,  but  th'  other's  more  comfortable. 
Wait  till  you've  growed  a  bit,  Piggy.  You  aren't  no 
taller  than  me  now.' 

'I've  bin  in  the  Army  for  two  years  an'  I'm  not  goin' 
to  get  out  of  a  chanst  o'  seein'  service  an'  don't  you  try 
to  make  me  do  so.  I'll  come  back,  Cris,  an'  when  I  take  on 
as  a  man  I'll  marry  you — marry  you  when  I'm  a  Lance.' 

'Promise,  Piggy?' 

Lew  reflected  on  the  future  as  arranged  by  Jakin  a 
short  time  previously,  but  Cris's  mouth  was  very  near 
to  his  own. 

'I  promise,  s'elp  me,  Gawd!'  said  he. 

Cris  slid  an  arm  round  his  neck. 

'I  won't  'old  you  back  no  more,  Piggy.  Go  away 
an'  get  your  medal,  an'  I'll  make  you  a  new  button-bag 
as  nice  as  I  know  how,'  she  whispered. 

'  Put  some  o'  your  'air  into  it,  Cris,  an'  I'll  keep  it  in 
my  pocket  so  long's  I'm  alive.' 


3o6  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Then  Cris  wept  anew,  and  the  interview  ended.  Pub- 
lic feeling  among  the  drummer-boys  rose  to  fever  pitch 
and  the  lives  of  Jakin  and  Lew  became  unenviable. 
Not  only  had  they  been  permitted  to  enlist  two  years 
before  the  regulation  boy's  age — fourteen — but,  by 
virtue,  it  seemed,  of  their  extreme  youth,  they  were 
allowed  to  go  to  the  Front — which  thing  had  not  hap- 
pened to  acting-drummers  within  the  knowledge  of 
boy.  The  Band  which  was  to  accompany  the  Regi- 
ment had  been  cut  down  to  the  regulation  twenty  men, 
the  surplus  returning  to  the  ranks.  Jakin  and  Lew  were 
attached  to  the  Band  as  supernumeraries,  though  they 
would  much  have  preferred  being  company  buglers. 

"Don't  matter  much,'  said  Jakin  after  the  medical 
inspection.  'Be  thankful  that  we're  'lowed  to  go  at 
all.  The  Doctor  'e  said  that  if  we  could  stand  what  we 
took  from  the  Bazar-Sergeant's  son  we'd  stand  pretty 
nigh  anything.' 

'Which  we  will,'  said  Lew,  looking  tenderly  at  the 
ragged  and  ill-made  housewife  that  Cris  had  given  him, 
with  a  lock  of  her  hair  worked  into  a  sprawling  *L' 
upon  the  cover. 

'It  was  the  best  I  could,'  she  sobbed.  'I  wouldn't 
let  mother  nor  the  Sergeant's  tailor  'elp  me.  Keep  it 
always,  Piggy,  an'  remember  I  love  you  true.' 

They  marched  to  the  railway  station,  nine  hundred 
and  sixty  strong,  and  every  soul  in  cantonments  turned 
out  to  see  them  go.  The  drummers  gnashed  their  teeth 
at  Jakin  and  Lew  marching  with  the  Band,  the  married 
women  wept  upon  the  platform,  and  the  Regiment 
cheered  its  noble  self  black  in  the  face. 

'A  nice  level  lot,'  said  the  Colonel  to  the  Second-in- 
Command  as  they  watched  the  first  four  companies  en- 
training. 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  307 

'Fit  to  do  anything/  said  the  Second-in-Command 
enthusiastically.  'But  it  seems  to  me  they're  a  thought 
too  young  and  tender  for  the  work  in  hand.  It's  bitter 
cold  up  at  the  Front  now.' 

'They're  sound  enough,'  said  the  Colonel.  'We  must 
take  our  chance  of  sick  casualties.' 

So  they  went  northward,  ever  northward,  past  droves 
and  droves  of  camels,  armies  of  camp-followers,  and 
legions  of  laden  mules,  the  throng  thickening  day  by 
day,  till  with  a  shriek  the  train  pulled  up  at  a  hopelessly 
congested  junction  where  six  lines  of  temporary  track 
accommodated  six  forty-waggon  trains;  where  whistles 
blew,  Babus  sweated  and  Commissariat  officers  swore 
from  dawn  till  far  into  the  night  amid  the  wind-driven 
chaff  of  the  fodder-bales  and  the  lowing  of  a  thousand 
steers. 

'Hurry  up — you're  badly  wanted  at  the  Front/  was 
the  message  that  greeted  the  Fore  and  Aft,  and  the  oc- 
cupants of  the  Red  Cross  carriages  told  the  same  tale. 

'  Tisn't  so  much  the  bloomin'  fightin'/  gasped  a 
headbound  trooper  of  Hussars  to  a  knot  of  admiring 
Fore  and  Afts.  "Tisn't  so  much  the  bloomin'  fightin', 
though  there's  enough  o'  that.  It's  the  bloomin'  food 
an'  the  bloomin'  climate.  Frost  all  night  'cept  when  it 
hails,  and  biling  sun  all  day,  and  the  water  stinks  fit 
to  knock  you  down.  I  got  my  'ead  chipped  like  a  egg; 
I've  got  pneumonia  too,  an'  my  guts  is  all  out  o'  order. 
'Tain't  no  bloomin'  picnic  in  those  parts,  I  can  tell  you.' 

'  Wot  are  the  niggers  like? '  demanded  a  private. 

'There's  some  prisoners  in  that  train  yonder.  Go 
an'  look  at  'em.  They're  the  aristocracy  o'  the  country. 
The  common  folk  are  a  dashed  sight  uglier.  If  you 
want  to  know  what  they  fight  with,  reach  under  my 
seat  an'  pull  out  the  long  knife  that's  there.' 


3o8  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

They  dragged  out  and  beheld  for  the  first  time  the 
grim,  bone-handled,  triangular  Afghan  knife.  It  was 
almost  as  long  as  Lew. 

'That's  the  thing  to  jint  ye,'  said  the  trooper  feebly. 
'It  can  take  off  a  man's  arm  at  the  shoulder  as  easy  as 
slicing  butter.  I  halved  the  beggar  that  used  that  'un, 
but  there's  more  of  his  likes  up  above.  They  don't 
understand  thrustin',  but  they're  devils  to  slice.' 

The  men  strolled  across  the  tracks  to  inspect  the 
Afghan  prisoners.  They  were  unlike  any  'niggers' 
that  the  Fore  and  Aft  had  ever  met — these  huge,  black- 
haired,  scowling  sons  of  the  Beni-Israel.  As  the  men 
stared  the  Afghans  spat  freely  and  muttered  one  to 
another  with  lowered  eyes. 

'My  eyes!  Wot  awful  swine!'  said  Jakin,  who  was 
in  the  rear  of  the  procession.  'Say,  old  man,  how  you 
got  puckrowed,  eh?  Kiswasti  you  wasn't  hanged  for 
your  ugly  face,  hey?' 

The  tallest  of  the  company  turned,  his  leg-irons 
clanking  at  the  movement,  and  stared  at  the  boy. 
'See!'  he  cried  to  his  fellows  in  Push  to.  'They  send 
children  against  us.  What  a  people,  and  what  fools!' 

'Hyat'  said  Jakin,  nodding  his  head  cheerily.  'You 
go  down-country.  Khana  get,  peenikapanee  get — live 
like  a  bloomin'  Raja  ke  marfik.  That's  a  better  ban- 
dobust  than  baynit  get  it  in  your  innards.  Good-bye, 
ole  man.  Take  care  o'  your  beautiful  figure-'ed,  an' 
try  to  look  kushy.' 

The  men  laughed  and  fell  in  for  their  first  march 
when  they  began  to  realize  that  a  soldier's  life  was  not 
all  beer  and  skittles.  They  were  much  impressed  with 
the  size  and  bestial  ferocity  of  the  niggers  whom  they 
had  now  learned  to  call  'Paythans,'  and  more  with 
the  exceeding  discomfort  of  their  own  surroundings. 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  309 

Twenty  old  soldiers  in  the  corps  would  have  taught 
them  how  to  make  themselves  moderately  snug  at  night, 
but  they  had  no  old  soldiers,  and,  as  the  troops  on  the 
line  of  march  said,  'they  lived  like  pigs.'  They  learned 
the  heart-breaking  cussedness  of  camp-kitchens  and 
camels  and  the  depravity  of  an  E.  P.  tent  and  a  wither- 
wrung  mule.  They  studied  animalculae  in  water,  and 
developed  a  few  cases  of  dysentery  in  their  study. 

At  the  end  of  their  third  march  they  were  disagreea- 
bly surprised  by  the  arrival  in  their  camp  of  a  hammered 
iron  slug  which,  fired  from  a  steady  rest  at  seven  hun- 
dred yards,  flicked  out  the  brains  of  a  private  seated  by 
the  fire.  This  robbed  them  of  their  peace  for  a  night, 
and  was  the  beginning  of  a  long-range  fire  carefully 
calculated  to  that  end.  In  the  daytime  they  saw  noth- 
ing except  an  unpleasant  puff  of  smoke  from  a  crag 
above  the  line  of  march.  At  night  there  were  distant 
spurts  of  flame  and  occasional  casualties,  which  set  the 
whole  camp  blazing  into  the  gloom  and,  occasionally, 
into  opposite  tents.  Then  they  swore  vehemently  and 
vowed  that  this  was  magnificent  but  not  war. 

Indeed  it  was  not.  The  Regiment  could  not  halt  for 
reprisals  against  the  sharpshooters  of  the  country-side. 
Its  duty  was  to  go  forward  and  make  connection  with 
the  Scotch  and  Gurkha  troops  with  which  it  was  bri- 
gaded. The  Afghans  knew  this,  and  knew  too,  after 
their  first  tentative  shots,  that  they  were  dealing  with  a 
raw  regiment.  Thereafter  they  devoted  themselves  to 
the  task  of  keeping  the  Fore  and  Aft  on  the  strain. 
Not  for  anything  would  they  have  taken  equal  liberties 
with  a  seasoned  corps — with  the  wicked  little  Gurkhas, 
whose  delight  it  was  to  lie  out  in  the  open  on  a  dark 
night  and  stalk  their  stalkers — with  the  terrible,  big 
men  dressed  in  women's  clothes,  who  could  be  heard 


3io  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

praying  to  their  God  in  the  night-watches,  and  whose 
peace  of  mind  no  amount  of  'sniping'  could  shake — 
or  with  those  vile  Sikhs,  who  marched  so  ostentatiously 
unprepared  and  who  dealt  out  such  grim  reward  to  those 
who  tried  to  profit  by  that  unpreparedness.  This  white 
regiment  was  different — quite  different.  It  slept  like 
a  hog,  and,  like  a  hog,  charged  in  every  direction  when 
it  was  roused.  Its  sentries  walked  with  a  footfall  that 
could  be  heard  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile;  would  fire  at 
anything  that  moved — even  a  driven  donkey — and 
when  they  had  once  fired,  could  be  scientifically  'rushed' 
and  laid  out  a  horror  and  an  offence  against  the  morn- 
ing sun.  Then  there  were  camp-followers  who  strag- 
gled and  could  be  cut  up  without  fear.  Their  shrieks 
would  disturb  the  white  boys,  and  the  loss  of  their  ser- 
vices would  inconvenience  them  sorely. 

Thus,  at  every  march,  the  hidden  enemy  became 
bolder  and  the  regiment  writhed  and  twisted  under 
attacks  it  could  not  avenge.  The  crowning  triumph 
was  a  sudden  night-rush  ending  in  the  cutting  of  many 
tent-ropes,  the  collapse  of  the  sodden  canvas  and  a 
glorious  knifing  of  the  men  who  struggled  and  kicked 
below.  It  was  a  great  deed,  neatly  carried  out,  and  it 
shook  the  already  shaken  nerves  of  the  Fore  and  Aft. 
All  the  courage  that  they  had  been  required  to  exercise 
up  to  this  point  was  the  'two  o'clock  in  the  morning 
courage/  and,  so  far,  they  had  only  succeeded  in  shoot- 
ing their  comrades  and  losing  their  sleep. 

Sullen,  discontented,  cold,  savage,  sick,  with  their  uni- 
forms dulled  and  unclean,  the  Fore  and  Aft  joined  their 
Brigade. 

'I  hear  you  had  a  tough  time  of  it  coming  up/  said 
the  Brigadier.  But  when  he  saw  the  hospital-sheet? 
his  face  fell. 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  311 

'  This  is  bad,'  said  he  to  himself.  '  They're  as  rotten  as 
slieep.'  And  aloud  to  the  Colonel — 'I'm  afraid  we  can't 
spare  you  just  yet.  We  want  all  we  have,  else  I  should 
have  given  you  ten  days  to  recover  in.' 

The  Colonel  winced.  '  On  my  honour,  Sir,'  he  returned, 
'there  is  not  the  least  necessity  to  think  of  sparing  us. 
My  men  have  been  rather  mauled  and  upset  without  a 
fair  return.  They  only  want  to  go  in  somewhere  where 
they  can  see  what's  before  them.' 

'  Can't  say  I  think  much  of  the  Fore  and  Fit,'  said  the 
Brigadier  in  confidence  to  his  Brigade-Major.  'They've 
lost  all  their  soldiering,  and,  by  the  trim  of  them, 
might  have  marched  through  the  country  from  the 
other  side.  A  more  fagged-out  set  of  men  I  never  put 
eyes  on.' 

'  Oh,  they'll  improve  as  the  work  goes  on.  The  parade 
gloss  has  been  rubbed  off  a  little,  but  they'll  put  on  field 
polish  before  long,'  said  the  Brigade-Major.  'They've 
been  mauled,  and  they  quite  don't  understand  it.' 

They  did  not.  All  the  hitting  was  on  one  side,  and  it 
was  cruelly  hard  hitting  with  accessories  that  made  them 
sick.  There  was  also  the  real  sickness  that  laid  hold  of  a 
strong  man  and  dragged  him  howling  to  the  grave. 
Worst  of  all,  their  officers  knew  just  as  little  of  the 
country  as  the  men  themselves,  and  looked  as  if  they  did. 
The  Fore  and  Aft  were  in  a  thoroughly  unsatisfactory 
condition,  but  they  believed  that  all  would  be  well  if  they 
could  once  get  a  fair  go-in  at  the  enemy.  Pot-shots  up 
and  down  the  valleys  were  unsatisfactory,  and  the  bayo- 
net never  seemed  to  get  a  chance.  Perhaps  it  was  as  well, 
for  a  long-limbed  Afghan  with  a  knife  had  a  reach  of  eight 
feet,  and  could  carry  away  lead  that  would  disable  three 
Englishmen. 

The  Fore  and  Aft  would  like  some  rifle-practice  at  the 


312  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

enemy — all  seven  hundred  rifles  blazing  together.    Thai 
wish  showed  the  mood  of  the  men. 

The  Gurkhas  walked  into  their  camp,  and  in  broken, 
Barrack-room  English  strove  to  fraternise  with  them; 
offered  them  pipes  of  tobacco  and  stood  them  treat  at  the 
canteen.  But  the  Fore  and  Aft,  not  knowing  much  of  the 
nature  of  the  Gurkhas,  treated  them  as  they  would  treat 
any  other  'niggers,'  and  the  little  men  in  green  trotted 
back  to  their  firm  friends  the  Highlanders,  and  with  many 
grins  confided  to  them : '  That  dam  white  regiment  no  dam 
use.  Sulky — ugh!  Dirty — ugh!  Hya,  any  tot  for 
Johnny? '  Whereat  the  Highlanders  smote  the  Gurkhas 
as  to  the  head,  and  told  them  not  to  vilify  a  British  Regi- 
ment, and  the  Gurkhas  grinned  cavernously,  for  the 
Highlanders  were  their  elder  brothers  and  entitled  to  the 
privileges  of  kinship.  The  common  soldier  who  touches 
a  Gurkha  is  more  than  likely  to  have  his  head  sliced 
open. 

Three  days  later  the  Brigadier  arranged  a  battle  ac- 
cording to  the  rules  of  war  and  the  peculiarity  of  the 
Afghan  temperament.  The  enemy  were  massing  in  in- 
convenient strength  among  the  hills,  and  the  moving  of 
many  green  standards  warned  him  that  the  tribes  were 
'  up '  in  aid  of  the  Afghan  regular  troops.  A  Squadron  and 
a  hah"  of  Bengal  Lancers  represented  the  available 
Cavalry,  and  two  screw-guns  borrowed  from  a  column 
thirty  miles  away,  the  Artillery  at  the  General's  disposal. 

'If  they  stand,  as  I've  a  very  strong  notion  that  they 
will,  I  fancy  we  shall  see  an  infantry  fight  that  will  be 
worth  watching/  said  the  Brigadier.  '  We'll  do  it  in  style. 
Each  regiment  shall  be  played  into  action  by  its  Band, 
and  we'll  hold  the  Cavalry  in  reserve/ 

'For  all  the  reserve? '  somebody  asked. 

'For  all  the  reserve;  because  we're  going  to  crumple 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  313 

them  up,'  said  the  Brigadier,  who  was  an  extraordinary 
Brigadier,  and  did  not  believe  hi  the  value  of  a  reserve 
when  dealing  with  Asiatics.  Indeed,  when  you  come  to 
think  of  it,  had  the  British  Army  consistently  waited  for 
reserves  hi  all  its  little  affairs,  the  boundaries  of  Our 
Empire  would  have  stopped  at  Brighton  beach. 

That  battle  was  to  be  a  glorious  battle. 

The  three  regiments  debouching  from  three  separate 
gorges,  after  duly  crowning  the  heights  above,  were  to 
converge  from  the  centre,  left,  and  right  upon  what  we 
will  call  the  Afghan  army,  then  stationed  towards  the 
lower  extremity  of  a  flat-bottomed  valley.  Thus  it  will  be 
seen  that  three  sides  of  the  valley  practically  belonged  to 
the  English,  while  the  fourth  was  strictly  Afghan  property. 
In  the  event  of  defeat  the  Afghans  had  the  rocky  hills  to 
fly  to,  where  the  fire  from  the  guerilla  tribes  hi  aid  would 
cover  their  retreat.  In  the  event  of  victory  these  same 
tribes  would  rush  down  and  lend  their  weight  to  the  rout 
of  the  British. 

The  screw-guns  were  to  shell  the  head  of  each  Afghan 
rush  that  was  made  in  close  formation,  and  the  Cavalry, 
held  hi  reserve  hi  the  right  valley,  were  to  gently  stimu- 
late the  break-up  which  would  follow  on  the  combined 
attack.  The  Brigadier,  sitting  upon  a  rock  overlooking 
the  valley,  would  watch  the  battle  unrolled  at  his  feet. 
The  Fore  and  Aft  would  debouch  from  the  central  gorge, 
the  Gurkhas  from  the  left,  and  the  Highlanders  from  the 
right,  for  the  reason  that  the  left  flank  of  the  enemy 
seemed  as  though  it  required  the  most  hammering.  It 
was  not  every  day  that  an  Afghan  force  would  take  ground 
in  the  open,  and  the  Brigadier  was  resolved  to  make  the 
most  of  it. 

'If  we  only  had  a  few  more  men,'  he  said  plaintively, 
'we  could  surround  the  creatures  and  crumple  'em  up 


3i4  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

thoroughly.    As  it  is,  I'm  afraid  we  can  only  cut  them  up 
as  they  run.   It's  a  great  pity.' 

The  Fore  and  Aft  had  enjoyed  unbroken  peace  for  five 
days,  and  were  beginning,  in  spite  of  dysentery,  to  recover 
their  nerve.  But  they  were  not  happy,  for  they  did 
not  know  the  work  in  hand,  and  had  they  known,  would 
not  have  known  how  to  do  it.  Throughout  those  five 
days  in  which  old  soldiers  might  have  taught  them  the 
craft  of  the  game,  they  discussed  together  their  misad- 
ventures in  the  past — how  such  an  one  was  alive  at  dawn 
and  dead  ere  the  dusk,  and  with  what  shrieks  and 
struggles  such  another  had  given  up  his  soul  under  the 
Afghan  knife.  Death  was  a  new  and  horrible  thing  to  the 
sons  of  mechanics  who  were  used  to  die  decently  of 
zymotic  disease;  and  their  careful  conservation  in  bar- 
racks had  done  nothing  to  make  them  look  upon  it  with 
less  dread. 

Very  early  in  the  dawn  the  bugles  began  to  blow,  and 
the  Fore  and  Aft,  filled  with  a  misguided  enthusiasm, 
turned  out  without  waiting  for  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a 
biscuit;  and  were  rewarded  by  being  kept  under  arms  in 
the  cold  while  the  other  regiments  leisurely  prepared  for 
the  fray.  All  the  world  knows  that  it  is  ill  taking  the 
breeks  off  a  Highlander.  It  is  much  iller  to  try  to  make 
him  stir  unless  he  is  convinced  cf  the  necessity  for  haste. 

The  Fore  and  Aft  waited,  leaning  upon  their  rifles  and 
listening  to  the  protests  of  their  empty  stomachs.  The 
Colonel  did  his  best  to  remedy  the  default  of  lining  as 
soon  as  it  was  borne  in  upon  him  that  the  affair  would  not 
begin  at  once,  and  so  well  did  he  succeed  that  the  coffee 
was  just  ready  when — the  men  moved  off,  their  Band 
leading.  Even  then  there  had  been  a  mistake  in  tune,  and 
the  Fore  and  Aft  came  out  into  the  valley  ten  minutes  be- 
fore the  proper  hour.  Their  Band  wheeled  to  the  right 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  313 

after  reaching  the  open,  and  retired  behind  a  little  rocky 
knoll  still  playing  while  the  Regiment  went  past. 

It  was  not  a  pleasant  sight  that  opened  on  the  unin- 
structed  view,  for  the  lower  end  of  the  valley  appeared  to 
be  filled  by  an  army  in  position— real  and  actual  regi- 
ments attired  in  red  coats,  and — of  this  there  was  no 
doubt — firing  Martini-Henri  bullets  which  cut  up  the 
ground  a  hundred  yards  in  front  of  the  leading  company. 
Over  that  pock-marked  ground  the  Regiment  had  to  pas?, 
and  it  opened  the  ball  with  a  general  and  profound 
courtesy  to  the  piping  pickets;  ducking  in  perfect  time,  as 
though  it  had  been  brazed  on  a  rod.  Being  half-capable 
of  thinking  for  itself,  it  fired  a  volley  by  the  simple  process 
of  pitching  its  rifle  into  its  shoulder  and  pulling  the  trigger. 
The  bullets  may  have  accounted  for  some  of  the  watchers 
on  the  hillside,  but  they  certainly  did  not  affect  the  mass 
of  enemy  in  front,while  the  noise  of  the  rifles  drowned  any 
orders  that  might  have  been  given. 

'Good  God!'  said  the  Brigadier,  sitting  on  the  rock 
high  above  all.  '  That  regiment  has  spoilt  the  whole  show. 
Hurry  up  the  others,  and  let  the  screw-guns  get  off. ' 

But  the  screw-guns,  in  working  round  the  heights,  had 
stumbled  upon  a  wasp's  nest  of  a  small  mud  fort  which 
they  incontinently  shelled  at  eight  hundred  yards,  to  the 
huge  discomfort  of  the  occupants,  who  were  unaccus- 
tomed to  weapons  of  such  devilish  precision. 

The  Fore  and  Aft  continued  to  go  forward  but  with 
shortened  stride.  Where  were  the  other  regiments,  and 
why  did  these  niggers  use  Martinis?  They  took  open 
order  instinctively,  lying  down  and  firing  at  random, 
rushing  a  few  paces  forward  and  lying  down  again,  ac- 
cording to  the  regulations.  Once  in  this  formation,  each 
man  felt  himself  desperately  alone,  and  edged  in  towards 
his  fellow  for  comfort's  sake. 


}i6  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Then  the  crack  of  his  neighbour's  rifle  at  his  ear  led  him 
to  fire  as  rapidly  as  he  could — again  for  the  sake  of  the 
comfort  of  the  noise.  The  reward  was  not  long  delayed. 
Five  volleys  plunged  the  files  in  banked  smoke  impene- 
trable to  the  eye,  and  the  bullets  began  to  take  ground 
twenty  or  thirty  yards  in  front  of  the  firers,  as  the 
weight  of  the  bayonet  dragged  down  and  to  the  right 
arms  wearied  with  holding  the  kick  of  the  leaping  Martini. 
The  Company  Commanders  peered  helplessly  through  the 
smoke,  the  more  nervous  mechanically  trying  to  fan  it 
away  with  their  helmets. 

'High  and  to  the  left!'  bawled  a  Captain  till  he  was 
hoarse.  'No  good!  Cease  firing,  and  let  it  drift  away  a 
bit.' 

Three  and  four  tunes  the  bugles  shrieked  the  order,  and 
when  it  was  obeyed  the  Fore  and  Aft  looked  that  their  foe 
should  be  lying  before  them  in  mown  swaths  of  men.  A 
light  wind  drove  the  smoke  to  leeward,  and  showed  the 
enemy  still  in  position  and  apparently  unaffected.  A 
quarter  of  a  ton  of  lead  had  been  buried  a  furlong  in  front 
of  them,  as  the  ragged  earth  attested. 

That  was  not  demoralising  to  the  Afghans,  who  have 
not  European  nerves.  They  were  waiting  for  the  mad 
riot  to  die  down,  and  were  firing  quietly  into  the  heart  of 
the  smoke.  A  private  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  spun  up  his 
company  shrieking  with  agony,  another  was  kicking  the 
earth  and  gasping,  and  a  third,  ripped  through  the  lower 
intestines  by  a  jagged  bullet,  was  calling  aloud  on  his  com- 
rades to  put  him  out  of  his  pain.  These  were  the  casual- 
ties, and  they  were  not  soothing  to  hear  or  see.  The 
smoke  cleared  to  a  dull  haze. 

Then  the  foe  began  to  shout  with  a  great  shouting  and 
a  mass — a  black  mass — detached  itself  from  the  main 
body,  and  rolled  over  the  ground  at  horrid  speed.  It  was 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  317 

composed  of,  perhaps,  three  hundred  men,  who  would 
shout  and  fire  and  slash  if  the  rush  of  their  fifty  comrades 
who  were  determined  to  die  carried  home.  The  fifty  were 
Ghazis,  half-maddened  with  drugs  and  wholly  mad  with 
religious  fanaticism.  When  they  rushed  the  British  fire 
ceased,  and  in  the  lull  the  order  was  given  to  close  ranks 
and  meet  them  with  the  bayonet. 

Any  one  who  knew  the  business  could  have  told  the 
Fore  and  Aft  that  the  only  way  of  dealing  with  a  Ghazi 
rush  is  by  volleys  at  long  ranges; because  a  man  who  means 
to  die,  who  desires  to  die,  who  will  gain  heaven  by  dying, 
must,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  kill  a  man  who  has  a  linger- 
ing prejudice  in  favour  of  life.  Where  they  should  have 
closed  and  gone  forward,  the  Fore  and  Aft  opened  out  and 
skirmished,  and  where  they  should  have  opened  out  and 
fired,  they  closed  and  waited. 

A  man  dragged  from  his  blankets  half  awake  and  unfed 
is  never  in  a  pleasant  frame  of  mind.  Nor  does  his 
happiness  increase  when  he  watches  the  whites  of  the  eyes 
of  three  hundred  six-foot  fiends  upon  whose  beards  the 
foam  is  lying,  upon  whose  tongues  is  a  roar  of  wrath,  and 
whose  hands  are  yard-long  knives. 

The  Fore  and  Aft  heard  the  Gurkha  bugles  bringing 
that  regiment  forward  at  the  double,  while  the  neighing 
of  the  Highland  pipes  came  from  the  left.  They  strove  to 
stay  where  they  were,  though  the  bayonets  wavered  down 
the  line  like  the  oars  of  a  ragged  boat.  Then  they  felt 
body  to  body  the  amazing  physical  strength  of  their  foes; 
a  shriek  of  pain  ended  the  rush,  and  the  knives  fell  amid 
scenes  not  to  be  told.  The  men  clubbed  together  and 
smote  blindly — as  often  as  not  at  their  own  fellows. 
Their  front  crumpled  like  paper,  and  the  fifty  Ghazis 
passed  on;  their  backers,  now  drunk  with  success,  fighting 
as  madly  as  they. 


3i8  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Then  the  rear-ranks  were  bidden  to  close  up,  and  the 
subalterns  dashed  into  the  stew — alone.  For  the  rear- 
ranks  had  heard  the  clamour  in  front,  the  yells  and  the 
howls  of  pain,  and  had  seen  the  dark  stale  blood  that 
makes  afraid.  They  were  not  going  to  stay.  It  was  the 
rushing  of  the  camps  over  again.  Let  their  officers  go  to 
Hell,  if  they  chose;  they  would  get  away  from  the  knives. 

'Come  on!'  shrieked  the  subalterns,  and  their  men, 
cursing  them,  drew  back,  each  closing  into  his  neighbour 
and  wheeling  round. 

Charteris  and  Devlin,  subalterns  of  the  last  company, 
faced  their  death  alone  in  the  belief  that  their  men  would 
follow. 

'You've  killed  me,  you  cowards,'  sobbed  Devlin  and 
dropped,  cut  from  the  shoulder-strap  to  the  centre  of  the 
chest,  and  a  fresh  detachment  of  his  men  retreating, 
always  retreating,  trampled  him  under  foot  as  they  made 
for  the  pass  whence  they  had  emerged. 

I  kissed  her  in  the  kitchen,  and  I  kJssed  her  in  the  hall. 

Child'um,  child'um,  follow  me! 
Oh  Golly,  said  the  cook,  is  he  gwine  to  kiss  us  all? 

Halla— Halla— Halla— Hallelujah ! 

The  Gurkhas  were  pouring  through  the  left  gorge  and 
over  the  heights  at  the  double  to  the  invitation  of  their 
Regimental  Quick-step.  The  black  rocks  were  crowned 
with  dark  green  spiders  as  the  bugles  gave  tongue 
jubilantly : — 

In  the  morning!     In  the  morning  by  the  bright  light! 
When  Gabriel  blows  his  trumpet  in  the  morning! 

The  Gurkha  rear-companies  tripped  and  blundered 
over  loose  stones.  The  front-files  halted  for  a  moment  to 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  319 

take  stock  of  the  valley  and  to  settle  stray  boot-laces. 
Then  a  happy  little  sigh  of  contentment  soughed  down 
the  ranks,  and  it  was  as  though  the  land  smiled,  for  be- 
hold there  below  was  the  enemy,  and  it  was  to  meet  them 
that  the  Gurkhas  had  doubled  so  hastily.  There  was 
\nuch  enemy.  There  would  be  amusement.  The  little 
men  hitched  their  kukris  well  to  hand,  and  gaped  ex- 
pectantly at  their  officers  as  terriers  grin  ere  the  stone  is 
cast  for  them  to  fetch.  The  Gurkhas'  ground  sloped 
downward  to  the  valley,  and  they  enjoyed  a  fair  view  of 
the  proceedings.  They  sat  upon  the  bowlders  to  watch, 
for  their  officers  were  not  going  to  waste  their  wind  in  as- 
sisting to  repulse  a  Ghazi  rush  more  than  half  a  mile  away. 
Let  the  white  men  look  to  their  own  front. 

'Hi!  yi!'  said  the  Subadar-Major,  who  was  sweating 
profusely.  'Dam  fools  yonder,  stand  close-order!  This 
is  no  time  for  close  order,  it  is  the  time  for  volleys. 
Ugh!' 

Horrified,  amused,  and  indignant,  the  Gurkhas  beheld 
the  retirement  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  with  a  running  chorus 
of  oaths  and  commentaries. 

'They  run!  The  white  men  run!  Colonel  Sahib,  may 
we  also  do  a  little  running? '  murmured  Runbir  Thappa, 
the  Senior  Jemadar. 

But  the  Colonel  would  have  none  of  it.  '  Let  the  beggars 
be  cut  up  a  little,'  said  he  wrathfully.  '  'Serves  'em  right. 
They'll  be  prodded  into  facing  round  in  a  minute.'  He 
looked  through  his  field-glasses,  and  caught  the  glint  of  an 
officer's  sword. 

'Beating  'em  with  the  flat — damned  conscripts!  How 
the  Ghazis  are  walking  into  them ! '  said  he. 

The  Fore  and  Aft,  heading  back,  bore  with  them  their 
officers.  The  narrowness  of  the  pass  forced  the  mob  into 
solid  formation,  and  the  rear-ranks  delivered  some  sort  of 


320  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

a  wavering  volley.  The  Ghazis  drew  off,  for  they  did  no\ 
know  what  reserve  the  gorge  might  hide.  Moreover,  it 
was  never  wise  to  chase  white  men  too  far.  They  re- 
turned as  wolves  return  to  cover,  satisfied  with  the 
slaughter  that  they  had  done,  and  only  stopping  to  slash 
at  the  wounded  on  the  ground.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  had 
the  Fore  and  Aft  retreated,  and  now,  jammed  in  the  pass, 
was  quivering  with  pain,  shaken  and  demoralised  with 
fear,  while  the  officers,  maddened  beyond  control,  smote 
the  men  with  the  hilts  and  the  flats  of  their  swords. 

'Get  back!  Get  back,  you  cowards — you  women! 
Right  about  face— column  of  companies,  form — you 
hounds!'  shouted  the  Colonel,  and  the  subalterns  swore 
aloud.  But  the  Regiment  wanted  to  go — to  go  anywhere 
out  of  the  range  of  those  merciless  knives.  It  swayed  to 
and  fro  irresolutely  with  shouts  and  outcries,  while  from 
the  right  the  Gurkhas  dropped  volley  after  volley  of 
cripple-stopper  Snider  bullets  at  long  range  into  the  mob 
of  the  Ghazis  returning  to  their  own  troops. 

The  Fore  and  Aft  Band,  though  protected  from  direct 
fire  by  the  rocky  knoll  under  which  it  had  sat  down,  fled 
at  the  first  rush.  Jakin  and  Lew  would  have  fled  also,  but 
their  short  legs  left  them  fifty  yards  in  the  rear,  and  by 
the  time  the  Band  had  mixed  with  the  Regiment,  they 
were  painfully  aware  that  they  would  have  to  close  in 
alone  and  unsupported. 

'  Get  back  to  that  rock,'  gasped  Jakin.  '  They  won't  see 
us  there.' 

And  they  returned  to  the  scattered  instruments  of  the 
Band;  their  hearts  nearly  bursting  their  ribs. 

'Here's  a  nice  show  for  us,'  said  Jakin,  throwing  him- 
self full  length  on  the  ground.  '  A  bloomin'  fine  show  for 
British  Infantry!  Oh,  the  devils!  They've  gone  an'  left 
as  alone  here !  Wot'll  we  do? ' 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  321 

Lew  took  possession  of  a  cast-off  water  bottle,  which 
naturally  was  full  of  canteen  rum,  and  drank  till  he 
coughed  again. 

'Drink,'  said  he  shortly.  'They'll  come  back  in  a 
minute  or  two— you  see.' 

Jakin  drank,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  the  Regiment's 
return.  They  could  hear  a  dull  clamour  from  the  head 
of  the  valley  of  retreat,  and  saw  the  Ghazis  slink 
back,  quickening  their  pace  as  the  Gurkhas  fired  at 
them. 

'We're  all  that's  left  of  the  Band,  an'  we'll  be  cut  up  as 
sure  as  death,'  said  Jakin. 

'I'll  die  game,  then,'  said  Lew  thickly,  fumbling  with 
his  tiny  drummer's  sword.  The  drink  was  working  on  his 
brain  as  it  was  on  Jakin's. 

'  'Old  on!  I  know  something  better  than  fightin','  said 
Jakin,  stung  by  the  splendour  of  a  sudden  thought  due 
chiefly  to  rum.  'Tip  our  bloomin'  cowards  yonder  the 
word  to  come  back.  The  Paythan  beggars  are  well  away. 
Come  on,  Lew!  We  won't  get  hurt.  Take  the  fife  an' 
give  me  the  drum.  The  Old  Step  for  all  your  bloomin' 
guts  are  worth!  There's  a  few  of  our  men  coming  back 
now.  Stand  up,  ye  drunken  little  defaulter.  By  your 
right— quick  march!' 

He  slipped  the  drum-sling  over  his  shoulder,  thrust  the 
fife  into  Lew's  hand,  and  the  two  boys  marched  out  of  the 
cover  of  the  rock  into  the  open,  making  a  hideous  hash  of 
the  first  bars  of  the  '  British  Grenadiers.' 

As  Lew  had  said,  a  few  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  were  coming 
back  sullenly  and  shamefacedly  under  the  stimulus  of 
blows  and  abuse;  their  red  coats  shone  at  the  head  of  the 
valley,  and  behind  them  were  wavering  bayonets.  But 
between  this  shattered  line  and  the  enemy,  who  with 
Afghan  suspicion  feared  that  the  hasty  retreat  meant  an 


322  UNDER  THfc  uEODARS 

ambush,  and  had  not  moved  therefore,  lay  half  a  mile  of 
a  level  ground  dotted  only  by  the  wounded. 

The  tune  settled  into  full  swing  and  the  boys  kept 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  Jakin  banging  the  drum  as  one  pos- 
sessed. The  one  fife  made  a  thin  and  pitiful  squeaking, 
but  the  tune  carried  far,  even  to  the  Gurkhas. 

'  Come  on,  you  dogs ! '  muttered  Jakin  to  himself.  '  Are 
we  to  play  forhever? '  Lew  was  staring  straight  in  front  of 
him  and  marching  more  stiffly  than  ever  he  had  done  on 
parade. 

And  in  bitter  mockery  of  the  distant  mob,  the  old  tune 
of  the  Old  Line  shrilled  and  rattled  :— 

Some  talk  of  Alexander, 

And  some  of  Hercules; 
Of  Hector  and  Lysander, 

And  such  great  names  as  these ! 

There  was  a  far-off  clapping  of  hands  from  the  Gurkhas, 
and  a  roar  from  the  Highlanders  in  the  distance,  but 
never  a  shot  was  fired  by  British  or  Afghan.  The  two 
little  red  dots  moved  forward  in  the  open  parallel  to  the 
enemy's  front. 

But  of  all  the  world's  great  heroes 

There's  none  that  can  compare, 
With  a  tow-row-row-row-row-row, 

To  the  British  Grenadier! 

The  men  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  were  gathering  thick  at 
the  entrance  into  the  plain.  The  Brigadier  on  the  heights 
far  above  was  speechless  with  rage.  Still  no  movement 
from  the  enemy.  The  day  stayed  to  watch  the  children. 

Jakin  halted  and  beat  the  long  roll  of  the  Assembly, 
while  the  fife  squealed  despairingly. 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  323 

'Right  about  face!  Hold  up,  Lew,  you're  drunk,'  said 
Jakin.  They  wheeled  and  marched  back : — 

Those  heroes  of  antiquity 
Ne'er  saw  a  cannon-ball, 
Nor  knew  the  force  o'  powder, 

*  Here  they  come ! '  said  Jakin.   *  Go  on,  Lew ' : — 
To  scare  their  foes  withal! 

The  Fore  and  Aft  were  pouring  out  of  the  valley.  What 
officers  had  said  to  men  in  that  time  of  shame  and  humili- 
ation will  never  be  known;  for  neither  officers  nor  men 
speak  of  it  now. 

'  They  are  coming  anew ! '  shouted  a  priest  among  the 
Afghans.  '  Do  not  kill  the  boys !  Take  them  alive,  and 
they  shall  be  of  our  faith.' 

But  the  first  volley  had  been  fired,  and  Lew  dropped  on 
his  face.  Jakin  stood  for  a  minute,  spun  round  and  col- 
lapsed, as  the  Fore  and  Aft  came  forward,  the  curses  of 
their  officers  in  their  ears,  and  in  their  hearts  the  shame  of 
open  shame. 

Half  the  men  had  seen  the  drummers  die,  and  they 
made  no  sign.  They  did  not  even  shout.  They  doubled 
out  straight  across  the  plain  in  open  order,  and  they  did 
not  fii '*. 

'This,'  said  the  Colonel  of  Gurkhas,  softly,  'is  the  real 
attack,  as  it  should  have  been  delivered.  Come  on,  my 
children.' 

'Ulu-lu-lu-lu!'  squealed  the  Gurkhas,  and  came  down 
with  a  joyful  clicking  of  kukris — those  vicious  Gurkha 
knives. 

On  the  right  there  was  no  rush.  The  Highlanders, 
cannily  commending  their  souls  to  God  (for  it  matters  as 


324  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

much  to  a  dead  man  whether  he  has  been  shot  in  a  Bordei 
scuffle  or  at  Waterloo),  opened  out  and  fired  according  to 
their  custom,  that  is  to  say  without  heat  and  without 
intervals,  while  the  screw-guns,  having  disposed  of  the 
impertinent  mud  fort  aforementioned,  dropped  shell  after 
shell  into  the  clusters  round  the  flickering  green  standards 
on  the  heights. 

'  Charrging  is  an  unfortunate  necessity,'  murmured  the 
Colour-Sergeant  of  the  right  company  of  the  Highlanders. 
'  It  makes  the  men  sweer  so,  but  I  am  thinkin'  that  it  will 
come  to  a  charrge  if  these  black  devils  stand  much  longer. 
Stewarrt,  man,  you're  firing  into  the  eye  of  the  sun,  and 
he'll  not  take  any  harm  for  Government  ammuneetion. 
A  foot  lower  and  a  great  deal  slower!  What  are  the  Eng- 
lish doing?  They're  very  quiet  there  in  the  centre.  Run- 
ning again? ' 

The  English  were  not  running.  They  were  hacking  and 
hewing  and  stabbing,  for  though  one  white  man  is  seldom 
physically  a  match  for  an  Afghan  in  a  sheepskin  or 
wadded  coat,  yet,  through  the  pressure  of  many  white 
men  behind,  and  a  certain  thirst  for  revenge  in  his  heart, 
he  becomes  capable  of  doing  much  with  both  ends  of  his 
rifle.  The  Fore  and  Aft  held  their  fire  till  one  bullet  could 
drive  through  five  or  six  men,  and  the  front  of  the  Afghan 
force  gave  on  the  volley.  They  then  selected  their  men, 
and  slew  them  with  deep  gasps  and  short  hacking  coughs, 
and  groanings  of  leather  belts  against  strained  bodies,  and 
realised  for  the  first  tune  that  an  Afghan  attacked  is  far 
less  formidable  than  an  Afghan  attacking;  which  fact  old 
soldiers  might  have  told  them. 

But  they  had  no  old  soldiers  hi  their  ranks. 

The  Gurkhas'  stall  at  the  bazar  was  the  noisiest,  for  the 
men  were  engaged — to  a  nasty  noise  as  of  beef  being  cut 
on  the  block — with  the  kukri,  which  they  preferred  to  the 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  325 

bayonet;  well  knowing  how  the  Afghan  hates  the  half- 
moon  blade. 

As  the  Afghans  wavered,  the  green  standards  on  the 
mountain  moved  down  to  assist  them  in  a  last  rally.  This 
was  unwise.  The  Lancers  chafing  in  the  right  gorge  had 
thrice  despatched  their  only  subaltern  as  galloper  to  re- 
port on  the  progress  of  affairs.  On  the  third  occasion  he 
returned,  with  a  bullet-graze  on  his  knee,  swearing  strange 
oaths  in  Hindustani,  and  saying  that  all  things  were 
ready.  So  that  Squadron  swung  round  the  right  of  the 
Highlanders  with  a  wicked  whistling  of  wind  in  the  pen- 
nons of  its  lances,  and  fell  upon  the  remnant  just  when, 
according  to  all  the  rules  of  war,  it  should  have  waited 
for  the  foe  to  show  more  signs  of  wavering. 

But  it  was  a  dainty  charge,  deftly  delivered,  and  it 
ended  by  the  Cavalry  finding  itself  at  the  head  of  the  pass 
by  which  the  Afghans  intended  to  retreat;  and  down  the 
track  that  the  lances  had  made  streamed  two  companies 
of  the  Highlanders,  which  was  never  intended  by  the 
Brigadier.  The  new  development  was  successful.  It  de- 
tached the  enemy  from  his  base  as  a  sponge  is  torn  from  a 
rock,  and  left  him  ringed  about  with  fire  in  that  pitiless 
plain.  And  as  a  sponge  is  chased  round  the  bath-tub  by 
the  hand  of  the  bather,  so  were  the  Afghans  chased  till 
they  broke  into  little  detachments  much  more  difficult  to 
dispose  of  than  large  masses. 

'  See ! '  quoth  the  Brigadier.  '  Everything  has  come  as  I 
arranged.  We've  cut  their  base,  and  now  we'll  bucket  'em 
to  pieces.' 

A  direct  hammering  was  all  that  the  Brigadier  had 
dared  to  hope  for,  considering  the  size  of  the  force  at  his 
disposal;  but  men  who  stand  or  fall  by  the  errors  of  their 
opponents  may  be  forgiven  for  turning  Chance  into 
Design.  The  bucketing  went  forward  merrily.  The 


326  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Afghan  forces  were  upon  the  run — the  run  of  wearied 
wolves  who  snarl  and  bite  over  their  shoulders.  The  red 
lances  dipped  by  twos  and  threes,  and,  with  a  shriek,  up- 
rose the  lance-butt,  like  a  spar  on  a  stormy  sea,  as  the 
trooper  cantering  forward  cleared  his  point.  The  Lancers 
kept  between  their  prey  and  the  steep  hills,  for  all  who 
could  were  trying  to  escape  from  the  valley  of  death.  The 
Highlanders  gave  the  fugitives  two  hundred  yards'  law, 
and  then  brought  them  down,  gasping  and  choking  ere 
they  could  reach  the  protection  of  the  bowlders  above. 
The  Gurkhas  followed  suit;  but  the  Fore  and  Aft  were 
killing  on  their  own  account,  for  they  had  penned  a  mass 
of  men  between  their  bayonets  and  a  wall  of  rock,  and 
the  flash  of  the  rifles  was  lighting  the  wadded  coats. 

'We  cannot  hold  them,  Captain  Sahib!'  panted  a  Res- 
saidar  of  Lancers.  'Let  us  try  the  carbine.  The  lance  is 
good,  but  it  wastes  tune.' 

They  tried  the  carbine,  and  still  the  enemy  melted  away 
— fled  up  the  hills  by  hundreds  when  there  were  only 
twenty  bullets  to  stop  them.  On  the  heights  the  screw- 
guns  ceased  firing — they  had  run  out  of  ammunition — and 
the  Brigadier  groaned,  for  the  musketry  fire  could  not 
sufficiently  smash  the  retreat.  Long  before  the  last  vol- 
leys were  fired,  the  doolies  were  out  in  force  looking  for 
the  wounded.  The  battle  was  over,  and,  but  for  want  of 
fresh  troops,  the  Afghans  would  have  been  wiped  off  the 
earth.  As  it  was  they  counted  their  dead  by  hundreds, 
and  nowhere  were  the  dead  thicker  than  in  the  track  of 
the  Fore  and  Aft. 

But  the  Regiment  did  not  cheer  with  the  Highlanders, 
nor  did  they  dance  uncouth  dances  with  the  Gurkhas 
among  the  dead.  They  looked  under  their  brows  at  the 
Colonel  as  they  leaned  upon  their  rifles  and  panted. 

'  Get  back  to  camp,  you.    Haven't  you  disgraced  your- 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  337 

self  enough  for  one  day!  Go  and  look  to  the  wounded. 
It's  all  you're  fit  for,'  said  the  Colonel.  Yet  for  the  past 
hour  the  Fore  and  Aft  had  been  doing  all  that  mortal  com- 
mander could  expect.  They  had  lost  heavily  because  they 
did  not  know  how  to  set  about  their  business  with  proper 
skill,  but  they  had  borne  themselves  gallantly,  and  this 
was  their  reward. 

A  young  and  sprightly  Colour-Sergeant,  who  had  begun 
to  imagine  himself  a  hero,  offered  his  water  bottle  to  a 
Highlander,  whose  tongue  was  black  with  thirst.  '  I  drink 
with  no  cowards,'  answered  the  youngster  huskily,  and, 
turning  to  a  Gurkha,  said,  'Hya,  Johnny!  Drink  water 
got  it? '  The  Gurkha  grinned  and  passed  his  bottle.  Th«> 
Fore  and  Aft  said  no  word. 

They  went  back  to  camp  when  the  field  of  strife  had 
been  a  little  mopped  up  and  made  presentable,  and  the 
Brigadier,  who  saw  himself  a  Knight  in  three  months,  was 
the  only  soul  who  was  complimentary  to  them.  The 
Colonel  was  heart-broken,  and  the  officers  were  savage 
and  sullen. 

'Well/  said  the  Brigadier,  'they  are  young  troops  of 
course,  and  it  was  not  unnatural  that  they  should  retire  in 
disorder  for  a  bit.' 

'Oh,  my  only  Aunt  Maria!'  murmured  a  junior  Staff 
Officer.  '  Retire  in  disorder !  It  was  a  bally  run ! ' 

'But  they  came  again  as  we  all  know,'  cooed  the  Brig 
adier,  the  Colonel's  ashy- white  face  before  him, '  and  they 
behaved  as  well  as  could  possibly  be  expected.  Behaved 
beautifully,  indeed.  I  was  watching  them.  It's  not  a 
matter  to  take  to  heart,  Colonel.  As  some  German 
General  said  of  his  men,  they  wanted  to  be  shooted  over  a 
little,  that  was  all.'  To  himself  he  said — 'Now  they're 
blooded  I  can  give  'em  responsible  work.  It's  as  well  that 
they  got  what  they  did.  'Teach  'em  more  than  half  a 


3*8  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

dozen  rifle  flirtations,  that  will — later — run  alone  and 
bite.  Poor  old  Colonel,  though.' 

All  that  afternoon  the  heliograph  winked  and  flickered 
on  the  hills,  striving  to  tell  the  good  news  to  a  mountain 
forty  miles  away.  And  in  the  evening  there  arrived, 
dusty,  sweating,  and  sore,  a  misguided  Correspondent 
who  had  gone  out  to  assist  at  a  trumpery  village-burning, 
and  who  had  read  off  the  message  from  afar,  cursing  his 
luck  the  while. 

'Let's  have  the  details  somehow — as  full  as  ever  you 
can,  please.  It's  the  first  time  I've  ever  been  left  this  cam- 
paign,' said  the  Correspondent  to  the  Brigadier,  and  the 
Brigadier,  nothing  loth,  told  him  how  an  Army  of  Com- 
munication had  been  crumpled  up,  destroyed,  and  all  but 
annihilated  by  the  craft,  strategy,  wisdom,  and  foresight 
of  the  Brigadier. 

But  some  say,  and  among  these  be  the  Gurkhas  who 
watched  on  the  hillside,  that  that  battle  was  won  by  Jakin 
and  Lew,  whose  little  bodies  were  borne  up  just  in  time  to 
fit  two  gaps  at  the  head  of  the  big  ditch-grave  for  the  dead 
under  the  heights  of  Jagai. 


THE  END 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY  N  Y 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is2u£«Wie79t  MtDA^uped  below. 


'ct  2  6 


SEP     1  1965 


FEB1?:78  14  DAY 

RK'&  COL.  LIB. 

MAR    9  1978 


2  1  JAN  'TTREC  CL 


Book  Slii)-35m-9,'62  (D2218s4)4280 


UCLA-College  Library 

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A     001  168  290     3 


